In the street

 My sweet—

 I might pass her by!

 Risk that? Not I!

 Take me home out of danger then! Quick, feet, quick.

Not Summer’s crown of scent the red rose weaves

Not

 Nor hawthorn blossom over bloom-strewn grass,

 Nor violet’s whisper when the children pass,

 Nor lilac perfume in the soft May eves,

 Nor new-mown hay, crisp scent of yellow sheaves,

 Nor any scent that Spring-time can amass

  

 And Summer squander, such a magic has

 As scent of fresh wet earth and fallen leaves.

 For sometimes lovers in November days,

 When earth is grieving for the vanished sun,

 Have trod dead leaves in chill and wintry ways,

 And kissed and dreamed eternal Summer won;

 Look back, look back! through memories’ deepening haze,

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