A boy and girl, carelessly linking hands,

Into their golden dream drifted away.

On that rich afternoon of scent and song

Old Michael Oaktree died. It was not much

He wished for; but indeed I think he longed

To see the light of summer once again

Blossoming o'er the far blue hills. I know

He used to like his rough-hewn wooden bench

Placed in the sun outside the cottage door

Where in the listening stillness he could hear,