Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
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nd once I marked his flight go round and round,As where some flower lay withering on the ground. And then he flew as far as eye could see,And then on tremulous wing came back to me. I thought of questions that have no reply,And would have turned to toss the grass to dry; But he turned first, and led my eye to lookAt a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook, A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had sparedBeside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. I left my place to know them by their name,Finding them butterfly weed when I came. The mower in the dew had loved them thus,By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
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