You have made summer golden; now you go.
Let us have nothing but the courteous words
Chosen by men to suit the unstirred heart
When roadways that were friendly fall apart.
Let neither say he knew that in these slow
Sweet dawns, was chiming of enchanted birds.
For words are broken wings; let it suffice
That in some evening, all the green and gold
Of pausing April suddenly will hold
Colour of you; the little horn of rain
Through dripping leaves will sound your name again,
And all the pools where opal sunsets shine,
Having more faithful memory than mine,
Will give me back the answer of your eyes.