Summer days of busy leisure, Long summer days of dear-bought pleasure, You have done your teaching well; Had the scholar means to tell How grew the vine of bitter-sweet, What made the path for truant feet, Winter nights would quickly pass, Gazing on the magic glass O'er which the new-world shadows pass; But, in fault of wizard spell, Moderns their tale can only tell In dull words, with a poor reed Breaking at each time of need. But those to whom a hint suffices Mottoes find for all devices, See