In summer, when the Cuckoo sings,
  And clouds like greater moons can shine;
When every leafy tree doth hold
  A loving heart that beats with mine:
Now, when the Brook has cresses green,
  As well as stones, to check his pace;
And, if the Owl appears, he's forced
  By small birds to some hiding-place:
Then, like red Robin in the spring,
  I shun those haunts where men are found;
My house holds little joy until
  Leaves fall and birds can make no sound;
Let none invade that wilderness
  Into whose dark green depths I go —
Save some fine lady, all in white,
  Comes like a pillar of pure snow.