Enoch Powell: First Poems: XLIII) The year revolves, the swifts return

XLIII) The year revolves, the swifts return

The year revolves, the swifts return,

The fields are white with may;

To light the summer on its way

The chestnut candles burn.

But bursting bud and lengthening day

To me are but a sign

Of one that took his youth and mine

And lost them far away.