What things I have missed today,
I know very well,
But the seeing of them
each new time is miracle.
Nothing between Bredon and
Dursley has
Any day yesterday’s precise
unpraisèd grace.
The changed light,
or curve changed mistily,
Coppice, now bold cut,
yesterday’s mystery.
A sense of mornings, once seen,
for ever gone,
Its own for ever: alive, dead,
and my possession.