It's Surely Summer. For There's A Swallow:

Why One Day In The Country Is Worth A Month In Town; Is Worth A Day And A Year Of The Dusty, Musty, Lag-last Fashion That Days Drone Elsewhere.

It Is Not The Deed We Do Though The Deed Be Never So Fair, But The Love That The Dear Lord Looketh For, Hidden With Lovely Care In The Heart Of The Deed So Fair.

When I Am Dead, My Dearest, Sing No Sad Songs For Me; Plant Thou No Roses At My Head, Nor Shady Cypress Tree: Be The Green Grass Above Me With Showers And Dewdrops Wet: And If Thou Wilt, Remember, And If Thou Wilt, Forget. I Shall Not See The Shadows, I Shall Not Feel The Rain; I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale Sing On As If In Pain: And Dreaming Through The Twilight That Doth Not Rise Nor Set, Haply I May Remember, And Haply I May Forget.

Observe This Dew-drenched Rose Of Tyrian Gardens A Rose Today. But You Will Ask In Vain Tomorrow What It Is; And Yesterday It Was The Dust, The Sunshine, And The Rains.

All Things That Pass Are Wisdom's Looking-glass.