Too finely pencilled—black and bleaching white
On smoky mist, too clear in the keen light
Of utmost summer: and oh! the lives that pass
In one swift stream of colour, too, too bright,
Too swift—and all the lives unknown,
Alone.
Alas. . . .
A truce to summer and beauty and the pain
Of being too consciously alive among
The things that pass and the things that remain,