When chill and grey November twilight calls
up images of sun and summer day,
I often see how on the heath I lay
or maybe walked through beeches’ flickering halls.
But often all the summer I once saw
melts to a single feeling that’s recalled,
a still, blue mist where nothing there at all
through stark distinctness rends the floating gauze.
Likewise I often see those I have loved,
all radiant, like summer days deployed;
they’re young once more, as I myself am too.
But sometimes all distinctness is removed.
My soul then seems to be a vault of blue,
one timeless treasure, full of quiet joy.
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