Often I had gone this way before br But now it seemed I never could be br And never had been anywhere else; br 'Twas home; one nationality br We had, I and the birds that sang, br One memory. br br They welcomed me. I had come back br That eve somehow from somewhere far: br The April mist, the chill, the calm, br Meant the same thing familiar br And pleasant to us, and strange too, br Yet with no bar. br br The thrush on the oaktop in the lane br Sang his last song, or last but one; br And as he ended, on the elm br Another had but just begun br His last; they knew no more than I br The day was done. br br Then past his dark white cottage front br A labourer went along, his tread br Slow, half with weariness, half with ease; br And, through the silence, from his shed br The sound of sawing rounded all br That silence said.