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These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June, — A blue and gold mistake.
When it comes, the landscape listens, Shadows hold their breath; When it goes, ‘t is like the distance On the look of death.
How pomp surpassing ermine, When simple you and I Present our meek escutcheon, And claim the rank to die!
I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be.
Immortality was close about her; and while never morbid or melancholy, she lived in its presence.
I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too?
The shapes, though, were similar, And our new hands Learned gem-tactics Practising sands.
Has sated flame’s conditions, Its quivering substance plays Without a color but the light Of unanointed blaze.
Their faith the everlasting troth; Their expectation fair; The needle to the north degree Wades so, through polar air.
As children, swindled for the first, All swindlers be, infer.
