From a Window

Up here, with June, the sycamore throws      Across the window a whispering screen;  I shall miss the sycamore more I suppose,

Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.    But I mean to go through the door without fear,    Not caring much what happens here        When I’m away: —How green the screen is across the panes    Or who goes laughing along the

With my old lover all the summer day.