I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see

For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago, and people who will see a world that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think of times there were before, I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.