summertide

Such a summertide, so beautiful and so brief, was accorded to Oscar Wilde before the final desolation.

He dreams, and his dreams are Springtide and Summertide and Appletide.

The forest was dark, not a leaf was moving; there were none of the vague, fresh gleams of summertide.

Summertide was steadily flooding in through the grateful leaves of his linden, and brightening his confining walls.

They were merely drifting—as youth usually drifts—with the sweet summertide.