Possessions

An old and quiet house set down A windy field or two from town.

And a great clump of lavender, All day with cross, small bees astir.

Larkspur, hot-blue as with a sting; And mint, so brief and sharp a thing.

Tall, well-thumbed books upon a shelf; A green, white-flowered jug of delf.

Old friends, who from the village walk On Sunday afternoons, to talk

Of the new shop; the guests from town; The wind that blew the apples down.

They go; the dusk comes from afar, Like music blown from out a star.

Those Others drift across the dew; My early love — and you — and you!