I Awoke In The Midsummer Not-to-call Night,

When We Hew Or Delve: After-comers Cannot Guess The Beauty Been.

Natural Heart's Ivy, Patience Masks Our Ruins Of Wrecked Past Purpose.

Life Death All Does End And Each Day Dies With Sleep.

Searching Nature I Taste Self But At One Tankard, That Of My Own Being.

Summer Ends Now; Now, Barbarous In Beauty, The Stooks Arise Around; Up Above, What Wind-walks! What Lovely Behavior Of Silk-sack Clouds! Has Wilder, Willful-waiver Meal-drift Molded Ever And Melted Across Skies?