I <br /> <br />There was never winter, summer only: roses, <br />Pink and white and red, <br />Shining down the warm rich garden closes; <br />Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow, <br />Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette, <br />Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread; <br />Good gold sun that kissed me when we met, <br />Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow. <br />In the hay-field, scented, grey, <br />Loving life and love, I lay; <br />By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep; <br />Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream. <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />Summer never was, was always winter only; <br />Cold and ice and frost <br />Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely, <br />In a world of strangers, in the welter <br />Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet, <br />Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost <br />In a bitter unfamiliar street, <br />I found a doorway, crouched there for just shelter, <br />Crouched and fought in vain for breath, <br />Cursed the cold and wished for death; <br />Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep; <br />Slept and dreamed there. Summer was the dream.<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-point-of-view-i/
