In Summer, When The Cuckoo Sings, And Clouds Like Greater Moons Can Shine; When Every Leafy Tree Doth Hold A Loving Heart That Beats With Mine: Now, When The Brook Has Cresses Green, As Well As Stones, To Check His Pace; And, If The Owl Appears, He's Forced By Small Birds To Some Hiding-Place: Then, Like Red Robin In The Spring, I Shun Those Haunts Where Men Are Found; My House Holds Little Joy Until Leaves Fall And Birds Can Make No Sound; Let None Invade That Wilderness Into Whose Dark Green Depths I Go, Save Some Fine Lady, All In White, Comes Like A Pillar Of Pure Snow.