XXVIII
I know a place where summer strivesWith such a practised frost,She each year leads her daisies back,Recording briefly, “Lost.”
But when the south wind stirs the poolsAnd struggles in the lanes,Her heart misgives her for her vow,And she pours soft refrains
Into the lap of adamant,And spices, and the dew,That stiffens quietly to quartz,Upon her amber shoe.