The summer drones, the afternoon will drain;
Dazed breathing sweeps her still-fresh dress;
In her étude she cogently invests
An eagerness for realms ungained.
Tonight, tomorrow, these may come to be;
Perhaps they came, yet chose to hide;
With all things flush, before the windows high,
She sensed the spoiled park suddenly.
Here she broke off, looked out, her hands enlaced:
"A lengthy book would do me well."
And angrily dismissed that jasmine smell,
Because it piqued her young, sweet face.