Summer days played, smorzando,
And daughter packed for her flight
Away from the silver lake.
This was some time ago, now,
In daughter’s foreshortened time
Sense of the young—weeks, at least.
We will keep the things she left,
To show her when she forgets
Summer was young once, like her.
Here are those pictures you sketched.
Here are your photos of friends,
Your summer friends on the deck
Of that sailboat in the sun,
Laughing as you all leap off,
Over the thousand-foot depths.
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