The Return

Restless limbs sweep low against the grain, Where winds roll past in whispers eternal;
Each glimmered leaf that bends by path will constrain An echo of love from the fated journal.

The echo rests like a sigh on the sod, Where dissolution finds its easy way, Softly painting the earth with the face of God, As all that is past melds into the day.

Finding the core of all life in the swell, The gentle draw of night with each new turn, Awake to the things that once spoke so well, More than the songs having flourished to burn.

• John Crowe Ransom