Young summer, yet again young summer, and the flame
Of green. new lit, runs all about the boughs;
Heart pain, new stirred, wells up in deeper tide.
Pink chestnut, and white chestnut, laden may,
Laburnum swinging loose upon the wind,
Our riro flitting thither in the leaves – – –
Three summers have passed by me since that hour
When pain had blinded, darling, your bright eyes,
And I stood by the casement where you lay
Dying, and looked upon our garden in its prime
Of freshest green, and all the roses gay,
Then, on the glowing morrow, you were gone.
Hath not eye seen, dearest, what you see
Now? or ear heard – – – oh was there even then
For you a summons audible ‘Today, with me,’ – – –
Left with all this, I lack what made it mine.
If you lack nothing, I will not complain.
I shall not wish you here again, with me, to-day.
From Collected Poems (Caxton, 1960)