When friendly summer calls again,
Her little fifers to these hills,
We’ll go — we two — to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
“—We’ll go,” I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths aswing,
And ferns not quite but almost drown.
“—We shall,” I say; but who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!
Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
from Late Lyrics and Earlier, with many other verses, 1922
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]