SAUDADE DO PASSADO E SAUDADES DO FUTURO

The Summer that we did not prize,
Her treasures were so easy
Instructs us by departing now
And recognition lazy —

Bestirs itself — puts on its Coat
And scans with fatal promptness
For Trains that moment out of sight,
Uncouscious of his smartness.

EMILY DICKINSON
(1830 — 1886)