All things on earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.
Come up into the hills. O, my young love, return! O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again. As first, I knew you in the timeless valley where we shall feel ourselves anew, bedded on magic in the month of June.
