Like some old fashioned miracle

When Summertime is done,

Seems Summer's recollection

And the affairs of June.

As infinite tradition

As Cinderella's bays,

Or little John of Lincoln Green,

Or Bluebeard's galleries.

Her Bees have a fictitious hum.

Her Blossoms, like a dream,

Elate—until we almost weep

So plausible they seem.

Her Memories like strains—review—

When Orchestra is dumb.

The Violin in baize replaced

And Ear and Heaven numb.