All winter long I sit and dream of days like this,
And gaze upon the sunflowers on the wall,
But when they come I sit here still, and bliss
Is cool air and gloomy shade inside.
The garden dappled by strong light through summer leaves,
Grown coarse, is pleasant beyond French doors,
But the heat and brightness of the lawn
Is tiring to the eyes. And the small glade
Of trees, bamboo and shrubs grown tall,
Although it brings relief from the hot glare
Irritates the skin with thunder flies.
And so summer is more of an idea, a fantasy
Than it seems to be a real, experienced thing,
A longed for period of happy wallowing
In a sense of freedom
And the smell of ripening wheat.