Arthur Davison Ficke

IS it summer that you crave—

Swallows dipping wing,

Evening light across the wave—

Or some farther thing?

Some report of happier places—

Golden times and lands,

New and wonder-laden faces,

New and eager hands?

Nay, you know not … But I know

Round you cold is furled,

Like this shroud of trampled snow

Smothering the world:

Where no trust in any spring

Now can heal or save,

Nor the icy sunlight bring

Swallows o’er the wave.