The Return The spring and summer bursts over, The cry of the warblers in the blue;
Naked the valley, washed with dew. None can feed.
She will not rise to this, here— The spring of a maiden, you lean and take hold. By the fall, the fall will come and go; Great shadows are fading, traced, shadowing out, And no one can whisper against the stones.

• Ezra Pound