Go From Me, Summer Friends, And Tarry Not: I Am No Summer Friend, But Wintry Cold, A Silly Sheep Benighted From The Fold, A Sluggard With A Thorn-Choked Garden Plot. Take Counsel, Sever From My Lot Your Lot, Dwell In Your Pleasant Places, Hoard Your Gold; Lest You With Me Should Shiver On The Wold, Athirst And Hungering On A Barren Spot. For I Have Hedged Me With A Thorny Hedge, I Live Alone, I Look To Die Alone: Yet Sometimes When A Wind Sighs Through The Sedge, Ghosts Of My Buried Years And Friends Come Back, My Heart Goes Sighing After Swallows Flown On Sometime Summer'S Unreturning Track.