A summer slips by without the speaker really noticing its riches — the warmth, the ease, the simple treasures that ask nothing in return. Only when it’s leaving does she understand what she’s lost. The season itself becomes a teacher, using its quiet exit to wake her up. Her lazy appreciation finally stirs, but too late. She pictures this belated readiness as someone hurriedly putting on a coat and rushing to catch a train that’s just vanished. That image carries a sharp, bittersweet sting: the summer is gone, and she didn’t even realise how much she wanted it. The whole poem hums with that particular ache of hindsight. It’s rueful, a little self-mocking, and quietly melancholy — the mood of standing on an empty platform, watching the tail-lights fade, and knowing you have only your own dazed inattention to blame.
The Summer that we did not prize, — Summary
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, Unconscious of his smartness.