| I KNOW a place where summer strives |
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| With such a practised frost, |
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| She each year leads her daisies back, |
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| Recording briefly, “Lost.” |
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| But when the south wind stirs the pools |
5 |
| And struggles in the lanes, |
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| Her heart misgives her for her vow, |
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| And she pours soft refrains |
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| Into the lap of adamant, |
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| And spices, and the dew, |
10 |
| That stiffens quietly to quartz, |
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| Upon her amber shoe. |
