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.
II
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.
