It must not be so:
They are the ways we do not go.
The kine, and moo
In the meadows we used to wander through;
The rivulets and curl
Towards the weirs with a musical swirl;
As in former years
Rake rolls into heaps that the pitchfork rears;
On the turfy track
The waggon pursues with its toppling pack.
“Why then shun –
Since summer’s not done –
All this because of the lack of one?”
Had you been
Sharer of that scene
You would not ask while it bites in keen
Why it is so
We can no more go
By the summer paths we used to know!