Here in lovely New England When summer is come, a sea-turn Flutters a page of remembrance In the volume of long ago. Soft is the wind over Grand Pré, Stirring the heads of the grasses, Sweet is the breath of the orchards White with their apple-blow. There at their infinite business Of measuring time forever, Murmuring songs of the sea, The great tides come and go. Over the dikes and the uplands Wander the great cloud shadows, Strange as the passing of sorrow, Beautiful, solemn, and slow. For, spreading her old enchantment Of tender ineffable wonder, Summer is there in the Northland! How should my heart not know?