the circle :: elizabeth bohm
We come to childhood after all our work
Of going up and down the roads of men;
In ignorance perhaps we take the fork
Leading to simplicity again.
We recognize a house, a field, a fence:
This is the country, this is where we played!
We meet the landscape that a child’s glance
Photographed on all our light and shade.
Again the glow like gas-flame of the sky
Trembles above the hills we always knew,
And though the morning long ago was dry
We trace our early steps across the dew.