POEM: THE POINT OF VIEW: I.

There was never winter, summer only: roses,

Pink and white and red,

Shining down the warm rich garden closes;

Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow,

Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette,

Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread;

Good gold sun that kissed me when we met,

Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow.

In the hay-field, scented, grey,

Loving life and love, I lay;

By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep;

Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream.

Summer never was, was always winter only;

Cold and ice and frost

Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely,

In a world of strangers, in the welter

Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet,

Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost

In a bitter unfamiliar street,

I found a doorway, crouched there for just shelter,

Crouched and fought in vain for breath,

Cursed the cold and wished for death;

Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep;

Slept and dreamed there. Summer was the dream.