English poem
THE PATH
by Francis Sherman (1825–1905)
Is this the path that knew your tread, Once, when the skies were just as blue As they are now, far overhead? Are these the trees that looked at you And listened to the words you said?
Along this moss did your dress sweep? And is this broken stem the one That gave its flower to you to keep? And here where the grasses knew the sun Before a sickle came to reap Did your dear shadow softly fall? This place is very like, and yet No shadow lieth here at all; With dew the mosses still are wet Although the grass no more is tall.
The small brown birds go rustling through The low-branched hemlock as of old; The tree-tops almost touch the blue; The sunlight falleth down like gold On one new flower that waiteth you.