Oh, how we ached in the chill of December
For the sultry swoon of summer’s days,
Where time is a turtle free of his shell
Floating soft on holiday.
And fragrant fields and meadows yield
A sensory boondogglement,
As air stands still upon the hill
And summer rains are heaven-sent.
Away you probing question marks.
Away you wicked doubts and fears.
How dare you bore upon my door
Now that summertime is here?
Tis only playful summer’s guests
Can enter here, can pound their chest
And dance the dance of folly’s fool
Until the sun sleeps in the west.
But even summer runs hers course
As autumn bites upon her nape,
And the turtle waits inside his shell
To taste the wine of summer’s grape.
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