The Sleep and the Shiver

Where art thou, summer of draught? And lying by?</br> The rivulet stills it gleams, The fields are shadowed, the flowers do weep. So tend thee then on your way, There shall be tokens where I shall stay: Come, fair winds upon the shores, And filmy nets and tranquil days.

Weep not, for the heart shall wither! The flowers may grow but will not stand, My life shall be upon your hesitating flow—and then I will chase thee into thine airs, Where night draws back the curtains dear, And when the dew fall’s soft down, though still thou pass and glimmer, E’ my soul are withering flowers.

• John Keats