Oh, you were like a summer's day.
its swollen buds, their juice
and bursts of fruity sweetness held
inside the rough winds loose—
and prodigal the heaven's eye
that scented man to spoil—
and clouds, and songbirds, and the sky
belonged to you, all.
Eternal should the day have been.
So who had it been, who
aboard this little earth had come
to net your flowered rue,
and freeze your winds to store them in
a cabinet to view?
Was I the perpetrator, used
too long to arctic hue?
(Who else? The world held but us two!)
Dazed by your nectar wild—
cupped by your richness, and then
in turn, your currents mild—
perhaps I'd seemed a ready thief,
bringing my gales and ice
as all the gifts you might receive.
For you, a mocking price.
For me, a harvest gathered twice.
Yet buds begrudge the place
which hard rime takes upon their beds:
they shatter it its base.
So let me make my return, flee
from treetop-roosting birds
to where no music comes with words
to where there is but me.
And as the summer comes to thaw
in sticky fruits, in jars,
I'll walk the Arctic's midnight thrall,
watching the icy stars.