Like Some Old Fashioned Miracle

LIKE some old fashioned miracle When Summertime is done, Seems Summer's recollection And the affairs of June.

As infinite tradition As Cinderella's bays, Or little John of Lincoln Green, Or Bluebeard's galleries.

Her Bees have a fictitious hum, Her Blossoms, like a dream, Elate–until we almost weep So plausible they seem.

Her Memories like strains–review– When Orchestra is dumb, The Violin in baize replaced And Ear and Heaven numb.