From a Window

Up here, with June, the sycamore throws

Across the window a whispering screen;

I shall miss the sycamore more I suppose,

Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.

But I mean to go through the door without fear,

Not caring much what happens here

When I’m away: —

How green the screen is across the panes

Or who goes laughing along the lanes

With my old lover all the summer day.