How little cold it needs to be
For the raindrops slanting past The window-pane to turn to snow;
And whether by preference you'd remember From year to year, or settle for
This dreamer's pattern of forgetting
There is no call to know.
In budding-time you rediscover
The willow-warbler's shapely song And the scent of resurrection in
The dried-out dust revived by rain.
In such games of Blind Man's Buff Whoever stood behind your back, Clasping their hands ar,ound you~ eyes, Will always stop. You 11 see agalO.