How cold the old porch seems. A dreary chill
    Creeps upward from the river at twilight,
    And yet, I like to linger here at night,
And dream the summer tarries with us still.

The summer and the summer guests, or guest.
    (Men rarely dream in plurals.) Over there
    Beyond the pillars, stands the rustic chair,
As bare and empty as a robin's nest.

No pretty head reclines its golden bands
    Against the back. No playful winds disclose
    Distracting glimpses of embroidered hose:
No palm leaf waves in dainty, dangerous hands.

How cold it is! That star up yonder gleams
    A white ice sickle from the heavenly eaves.
    That bleak wind from the river sighs and grieves,
Perchance o'er some poor fellow's broken dreams.

Come in, and shut the door, and leave that star
    To watch above the lonely portico.
    Summer and summer guests and dreams must go.
Well, Fate was kind to leave me my cigar.

Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.

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