I know I am but
summer to your heart,
And not the full
four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such
noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of
golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and
wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of
Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with
silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another
clime.
--from The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems, Edna St. Vincent Millay