Arthur Stringer (1874–1950)

DEEP in the fluted hollow of its shells

Dimly some echo of the ocean dwells.

Still in September’s fruitage, mellow-cored,

The filtered sweets of golden noons are stored.

And shimmering on a blue-bird’s migrant wings

Some poignant touch of June’s lost azure clings.

Still in the rustling sheaf to-day there gleams

The lingering gold of April’s vanished dreams.

Still in the cell of one autumnal bee

I find lost summer in epitome.

And all that better life that I would lead,

Writ small in this, one childish face, I read.