We came back, my wife and I, after sixteen sunny Swiss summers, to England.

 

The same house, grown older and suffering from neglectful use. The same Bath stone streets, glowing in the evening sun. The same hills, indifferent to our absence and our return. The same barely warm enough to be summer weather which my bones now protest.

 

Summer is now gone and we are not. Our future is here. As I looked at a too cloudy sky I found myself in need of a reminder that it will not all be winter.

 

So here is a poem from Christina Rossetti on watching summer leave and hoping for its return.

 

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