She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.
Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.
I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
Life must go on; I forget just why.
And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
Night falls fast. Today is in the past. Blown from the dark hill hither to my door Three flakes, then four Arrive, then many more.