by Peter Burra (1909 - 1937)

Not even summer yet
Language: English 
Not even summer yet
Can make my quite forget
That still most blessed thing,
The early spring.

I watch'd the red-tipped trees
Burst into greeneries;
Saw the swift blossom come
Like sea dissolv'd in foam.

But in the lover's ways,
The summer of his days
Is come from such a spring
As poets cannot sing.

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Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):


Researcher for this text: David K. Smythe

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 12
Word count: 55