Not Summer's crown of scent the red rose weaves...

Not Summer's crown of scent the red rose weaves

Nor hawthorn blossom over bloom-strewn grass,

Nor violet's whisper when the children pass,

Nor lilac perfume in the soft May eves,

Nor new-mown hay, crisp scent of yellow sheaves,

Nor any scent that Spring-time can amass

And Summer squander, such a magic has

As scent of fresh wet earth and fallen leaves.

For sometimes lovers in November days,

When earth is grieving for the vanished sun,

Have trod dead leaves in chill and wintry ways,

And kissed and dreamed eternal Summer won;

Look back, look back! through memories’ deepening haze,

See — two who dreamed that dream, and you were one.