But strictly held by none, is loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To everything on earth the compass round, And only by one's going slightly taut In the capriciousness of summer air Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods.
'Warm in December, cold in June, you say?' I don't suppose the water's changed at all. You and I know enough to know it's warm Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm. But all the fun's in how you say a thing.
I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.
But what would interest you about the brook, It's always cold in summer, warm in winter.
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