The Beach Road by the Wood
I know a beach road,
A road where I would go,
It runs up northward
From Cooden Bay to Hoe;
And there, in the High Woods,
Daffodils grow.
And whoever walks along there
Stops short and sees,
By the moist tree-roots
In a clearing of the trees,
Yellow great battalions of them,
Blowing in the breeze.
While the spring sun brightens,
And the dull sky clears,
They blow their golden trumpets,
Those golden trumpeteers!
They blow their golden trumpets
And they shake their glancing spears.
And all the rocking beech-trees
Are bright with buds again,
And the green and open spaces
Are greener after rain,
And far to southward one can hear
The sullen, moaning rain.
Once before I die
I will leave the town behind,
The loud town, the dark town
That cramps and chills the mind,
And I’ll stand again bareheaded there
In the sunlight and the wind.
Yes, I shall stand
Where as a boy I stood
Above the dykes and levels
In the beach road by the wood,
And I’ll smell again the sea breeze,
Salt and harsh and good.
And there shall rise to me
From that consecrated ground
The old dreams, the lost dreams
That years and cares have drowned;
Welling up within me
And above me and around
The song that I could never sing
And the face I never found.