As one who lingers on a sunlit hill
To draw the late warm rays of afternoon
Around him, lest the quiet dusk should still
Within his summer brain the sounds of June,
I dreamed, enchanted in this little room,
Of larks upblown, of earth grown warm with morning,
Bees in drowsy plunder on a bloom,
And water moving with a kind of scorning
Voiced against the river stones. But I
When at the pinnacle of triumphing
Remembered, and I felt the summer die
Along my blood, like birds that wheel and wing
Away. And night fell down upon the fen;
And hollow was the heart I turned to men.
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