Lizette Woodworth Reese
Two countries yours, but one you half forget,
For this is furlongs off, yet strangely near;
A sudden click of its gate sounds in your ear;
A moment on its acres are you set.
Some common task to do, ten times, a score—
Like shaking fruit off an old fence-bound tree—
And all at once, you know, because you see,
Some otherwhere this have you done before.
Just now, with painted, clinking pail, you came
And shook down in the sun of Hallowmas,
A huddle of yellow pears, the last, the few:
How many times had you not done the same?
And all at once, alone, strange in the grass,
A hand on bough, that older, other You!