THE thronged boughs of the shadowy sycamore

Still bear young leaflets half the summer through;

⁠From when the robin 'gainst the unhidden blue

Perched dark, till now, deep in the leafy core,

The embowered throstle's urgent wood-notes soar

⁠Through summer silence. Still the leaves come new;

⁠Yet never rosy-sheathed as those which drew

Their spiral tongues from spring-buds heretofore.

Within the branching shade of Reverie

Dreams even may spring till autumn; yet none be

⁠Like woman's budding day-dream spirit-fann'd.

Lo, tow'rd deep skies, not deeper than her look,

She dreams; till now on her forgotten book