The summer never quite departs;
Despite the snow and sleet and ice,
I hold her to my heart of hearts
By many a lovely, quaint device.

One glance upon my pictured walls
Brings back her sunny face to me,—
Her meadow-lands and waterfalls,
And haunts of wild-wood greenery.

Her birds flash out in plumage gay
From frame and easel,—nested things,
That never pine, nor once essay
A flight upon their gleaming wings.

Her plumy grasses deck my stand,
Her oaks and maples flaunt their sheen
Of red and gold (by autumn's hand
Transfigured), here and there between.

Her flowers and fruits are mine; I raise
My hand, and—artist-wrought—I see
Great crimson roses, lily sprays,
And blossoms of the fair sweet-pea.

And still, above my daily board,
To feast my beauty-loving eye,
Her June-fed strawberries are poured,
And cherries sunned by hot July.

Her gracious presence, too, I meet
In alien things; my frosted panes
The glories of her realm repeat
And duplicate her broad domains:

Great forests here, perhaps; and there,
A wilderness of feathery brakes;
Strange, tropic growths, grotesque or fair;
Rushes and reeds by silver lakes.

So summer never quite departs;
For, spite the snow and sleet and ice,
She holds me to her heart of hearts
By many a cunning, quaint device.