And dream, while tides of crimson fire

Sweep, smoking, over Catmos vale.

To E. J. C.

Here, Summer lingering, loiter I When I, with Summer, should be gone⁠ ⁠… Where only London lights the sky I go, and with me journeys “Swann”

Whose pages’ dull, laborious woof Covers a warp of working-times, Of firelit nights beneath your roof And sunlit days beneath your limes,