Near and Fair

Two fields in winter
Equally stark;
One under snow,
The other dirt-dark.

I remember the first
As I stand in the second,
And smile at the snowdrops
Which once to... us... beckoned.

There, the snows of New England
Blanket all down below,
Here the flint fields of Norfolk
Stay bare to the hoe.

Are they really so lifeless,
Or just freezing, half-buried?
Was there time for maturing,
Or were seasons too hurried?

These matter less now
Than the acres of distance,
For the first field lies far
From my vision's persistence.

Will I grow in this field,
Or fall still 'neath a shroud?
(Far above both the plots
Looms a threatening cloud.)

So I turn towards the hedge,
Past the drifts and the mud
And the path to the village,
And the bridge o'er the flood.

Leaving both fields to nature,
Where memories are grown
After snowdrifts and leaves,
From their faces are blown.