I know a place where summer strives
I know a place where summer strives / With such a practised frost,
'TWAS comfort in her dying room
To hear the living clock,
A short relief to have the wind
Walk boldly up and knock,
Diversion from the dying theme
To hear the children play,
But wrong, the mere
That these could live,–
And This of ours must die!
I know a place where summer strives / With such a practised frost,
One of the ones that Midas touched, / Who failed to touch us all,
Could I but ride indefinite, / As doth the meadow-bee,
How the old mountains drip with sunset, / And the brake of dun!