The thronged boughs of the shadowy sycamore
Still bear young leaflets half the summer through;
From when the robin ‘gainst the unhidden blue
Perched dark, till now, deep in the leafy core,
The embowered throstle’s urgent wood-notes soar
Through summer-silence. Still the leaves come new;
Yet never rosy-sheaved as those which drew
Their spiral tongues from spring-buds heretofore.Within the branching shade of Reverie
Dreams even may spring till autumn; yet none be
Like woman’s budding day-dream spirit-fann’d.
Lo! tow’rd deep skies, not deeper than her look,
She dreams; till now her forgotten book
Drops the forgotten blossom from her hand.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti