Robert Laurence Binyon

She is not fair, as some are fair, Cold as the snow, as sunshine gay: On her clear brow, come grief what may,

I cannot raise my eyelids up from sleep, But I am visited with thoughts of you; Slumber has no refreshment half so deep

O Summer sun, O moving trees! O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering street! What hour shall Fate in all the future find,

When life begins anew, And Youth, from gathering flowers, From vague delights, rapt musings, twilight hours,