 | Twilight Songs |  |
11
THE OLD COUNTRY.
Asi go home at end of day, the old road,
Through the enchanted country full of my dreams,
By the dim hills, the pellucid o'er-arching sky,
Home to the West, full of great clouds and the sunset,
Past the cattle that stand in rich grass to the knees,
It is not I who go home: it is not I.
Through the enchanted country full of my dreams,
By the dim hills, the pellucid o'er-arching sky,
Home to the West, full of great clouds and the sunset,
Past the cattle that stand in rich grass to the knees,
It is not I who go home: it is not I.
Here is the turn we took, going home with my father,
The little feet of the pony trotting so fast,
Home by the winding lane full of music of water,
He and I, we were enough for each other
Going home through the silver, the pearly twilight,
I content with my father, he with his daughter.
The little feet of the pony trotting so fast,
Home by the winding lane full of music of water,
He and I, we were enough for each other
Going home through the silver, the pearly twilight,
I content with my father, he with his daughter.
Magical country, full of memories and dreams,
My youth lies in the crevices of your hills,
Here in the silk of your grass by the edge of the meadows,
Every flower and leaf has its memories of you.
Home was home then and the people friendly,
And you and I going home in the lengthening shadows.
My youth lies in the crevices of your hills,
Here in the silk of your grass by the edge of the meadows,
Every flower and leaf has its memories of you.
Home was home then and the people friendly,
And you and I going home in the lengthening shadows.
12
Now I go home no more, though the swift car glides,
Carries me fast through the dear, the heavenly country.
No one knows me, the cottages show strange faces,
They who were kindly, who bid me “God save you!” of yore,
They are gone, they are flown, and only the country's the same,
And you sleeping so quietly under the grass.
Carries me fast through the dear, the heavenly country.
No one knows me, the cottages show strange faces,
They who were kindly, who bid me “God save you!” of yore,
They are gone, they are flown, and only the country's the same,
And you sleeping so quietly under the grass.
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