I know a place where Summer strives
With such a practised Frost —
She — each year — leads her Daisies back —
Recording briefly — “Lost” —

But when the South Wind stirs the Pools
And struggles in the lanes —
Her Heart misgives Her, for Her Vow —
And she pours soft Refrains

Into the lap of Adamant —
And spices — and the Dew —
That stiffens quietly to Quartz —
Upon her Amber Shoe —

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