There is a poignancy in all things clear, In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning. Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.

The eye is pleased when nature stoops to art.

But ceremony never did conceal, Save to the silly eye, which all allows, How much we are the woods we wander in.

Caught Summer is always an imagined time. Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind. There must be prime In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find Riding the palest days Its perfect blaze.

Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.

We milk the cow of the world, and as we do We whisper in her ear, "You are not true."

Hot summer has exhausted her intent To the last rose and roundelay and seed. No leaf has changed, and yet these leaves now read Like a love-letter that's no longer meant.