I know a place where Summer strives
With such a practised Frost-
She-each year-leads her Daisies back-
Recording briefly-”Lost”-

But when the South Wind stirs the Pools
And 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-