From a Window

Up here, with June, the sycamore throws

     Across the window a whispering screen;

 I shall miss the sycamore more I suppose,

Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.

   But I mean to go through the door without fear,

   Not caring much what happens here

       When I’m away: —

How green the screen is across the panes

   Or who goes laughing along the lanes

With my old lover all the summer day.