I know a place where Summer strives
With such a practised Frost –
She — each year — leads her Daisies back –
Recording briefly — “Lost” –
But when the South Wind stirs the Pools
And struggles in the lanes –
Her Heart misgives Her, for Her Vow –
And she pours soft Refrains
Into the lap of Adamant –
And spices — and the Dew –
That stiffens quietly to Quartz –
Upon her Amber Shoe –
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