From a Window


      Up here, with June, the sycamore throws
      Across the window a whispering screen;
  I shall miss the sycamore more I suppose,
Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.
    But I mean to go through the door without fear,
    Not caring much what happens here
        When Iím away: --
How green the screen is across the panes
    Or who goes laughing along the lanes
With my old lover all the summer day.



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