Still.

SUMMER

The oak's slow-opening leaf, of deepening hue,  

Bespeaks the power of Summer once again ; 

While many a flower unfolds its charms to view,  

To glad the entrance of his sultry reign. 

Where peep the gaping speckled cuckoo-flowers,  

Sweet is each rural scene she brings to pass ; 

Prizes to rambling school-boys' vacant hours,  

Tracking wild searches through the meadow grass 

The meadow-sweet taunts high its showy wreath, 

And sweet the quaking-grasses hide beneath.  

Ah, 'barr'd from all that sweetens life below, 

Another Summer still my eyes can see  

Freed from the scorn and pilgrimage of woe, 

To share the Seasons of Eternity.

John Clare