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 I?m away: --
How green the screen is across the panes
Or who goes laughing along the lanes
With my old lover all the summer day.