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.
To see the original poem, go to here
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