  This singing Summertime has never done With afternoons all gold and dust and fire, And windy trees blown silver in the sun, The lights of earth, her musics and desire;— But day by day, and hour by lighted hour, Something beyond the summer earth and sky, Burns through this passion of a world in flower,— Some ghostly sense of lovers thronging by. And I have thought, upon this windy hill, Where bends and sways the long, dream-troubled grass, That I may know the heart-beats, tender still, Of gone, forgotten lovers where they pass,— Their love, too long for one brief life to hold, Beating and burning through this dust and gold. |
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