Like some old fashioned miracle
When Summertime is done,
Seems Summer’s recollection
And the affairs of June.
As infinite tradition
As Cinderella’s bays,
Or little John of Lincoln Green,
Or Bluebeard’s galleries.
Her Bees have a fictitious hum.
Her Blossoms, like a dream,
Elate—until we almost weep
So plausible they seem.
Her Memories like strains—review—
When Orchestra is dumb.
The Violin in baize replaced
And Ear and Heaven numb.
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