And they in turn will soon be replaced, until all of this rising and opening and fading and falling has its denouement in an empty December to come. But there is no need to dwell on that now.
William Callow (1812-1908), "Easby Abbey, Yorkshire" (1853)
In the Fields
Lord, when I look at lovely things which pass,
Under old trees the shadows of young leaves
Dancing to please the wind along the grass,
Or the gold stillness of the August sun on the August sheaves,
Can I believe there is a heavenlier world than this?
And if there is
Will the strange heart of any everlasting thing
Bring me these dreams that take my breath away?
They come at evening with the home-flying rooks and the scent of hay,
Over the fields. They come in Spring.
Charlotte Mew, Complete Poems (edited by John Newton) (Penguin 2000.) The poem was first published in 1923.
William Callow, "Old Avenue, Inveraray"
The following poem by Walter de la Mare (which has appeared here before, but which is worth revisiting) provides, I think, a nice complement to Mew's poem.
The longed-for summer goes;
To its last rose,
Its narrowest day.
No heaven-sweet air but must die;
Its final note.
Oh, what dull truths to tell!
Now is the all-sufficing all
Wherein to love the lovely well,
Walter de la Mare, O Lovely England and Other Poems (1953).
William Callow, "Confluence of the Greta and the Tees" (1872)