THOUGH days be short and nights be long
In other parts of Boston town,
The Public Garden harbors snows
Instead of pansy-bed and rose;
Though swanboats all are stored away,
And fickle fogs invade Back Bay,
Surely the sun, still warm and sweet,
Must linger on in Summer Street.
When silent sparrows almost freeze
Amid the Common’s wintry trees,
When windows shake on Beacon Hill,
And skies above the Charles grow chill,
Beyond a doubt, a leafy sigh
Enchants the ears of passers-by,
And pavements under sandaled feet
Are soft as grass, on Summer Street.
Certainly, surely, crisp as cresses,
Sunburned girls in cotton dresses
Stroll and smile and disappear
Round corners never guessed before,
Always a liquid-singing thrush
Is hidden in some secret bush,
And there are strawberries to eat.
And ice-cream cones, on Summer Street!