Of the whole year, I think, I love

Of the whole year, I think, I love
The best that time we used to call
The Little Summer of All Saints,
About the middle of the fall,

Because there fell the golden days
Of that gold year beside the sea,
When first I had you at heart's will,
And you had your whole will of me.

It is the being's afternoon,
The second summer of the soul,
When spirits find a way to reach
Beyond the sense and its control.

Then come the firmamental days,
The underseason of the year,
When God himself, being well content,
Takes time to whisper in our ear.

Sweetheart, once more by every sign
Of blade and shadow, it must be
The Little Summer of All Saints
In the red Autumn by the sea.