The speaker brushes aside summer trees almost impatiently: the real sanctuary lies within, in the “foliage of the mind.” That inner forest is a tabernacle for birds of no physical kind, creatures of pure thought or spirit. She’s not interested in actual trees because her mind offers something holier and stranger. Even the winds at noon are drawn there, heading home to ethereal homes whose bugles call the least of us toward undepicted realms. She feels the deepest summons comes not from the visible world but from an unseen one, and the mood is quiet, hushed, a little secretive—as if she’s letting you in on a private truth: the true summer, the real cathedral, is inside the imagination. It’s a gentle turning away from the outer world to honor the invisible.
Talk not to me of Summer Trees — Summary
Talk not to me of Summer Trees The foliage of the mind A Tabernacle is for Birds Of no corporeal kind And winds do go that way at noon To their Ethereal Homes Whose Bugles call the least of us To undepicted Realms