The Haymow: Winter

ALL that was summer in the roadside fields
Is piled in brittle chaos in the mow,
And here the dry and dusty air still yields
A breath of summer’s fragrance even now.
This clover leaf was silver with the dew;
That was the restless grass; that, Queen Anne’s lace
Afloat like lilies on the afternoon.
And, as the mummies of dead kings renew
Visions of glory, their crisp hands recall
A brighter past: here in this twilight place,
Stirring and whispering in their faded sleep,
The weedy ghosts speak of an old stone wall,
Of blackbird wings, the cricket’s hearty tune,
Of summer that no spell can ever keep.