The Rustling of Grass

I cannot tell why,

But the rustling of grass,

As the summer winds pass

Through the field where I lie,

Bring to life a lost day,

Long ago, far away,

When in childhood I lay

Looking up at the sky

And the white clouds that pass,

Trailing isles of grey shadow

Across the gold grass. . .

O, the dreams that drift by

With the slow flowing years,

Hopes, Memories, tears,

In the rustling grass.