I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say:
O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.
