Anamnesis

Each January you learn anew
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 your eyes,
Will always stop. You'll see again.