Farewell

Always I shall remember this—
A field close to a road, and high
With yarrow, slate-white, bitter thing.
There was no sound from sky to sky,

But that of your slow foot to town,
Treading the white herbs to the ground.
I shall remember everywhere
That smell of yarrow all around.

I shall remember it too well,
As I have done the half of life;
My skirts are full of it, my hands;
It hacks at me as with a knife.