The month; does but shiver into joy, With the tears of a snow-drop, Little-bells, buoyant, green and cloy, Ringing; beyond the hilltop. The lovers-root is a white-flower
What man lusts he takes What man seeks he finds? What man desires he fractures What man envisages transpires. What man hates up-rises, manifold..? What man breaks hence is, fixed.
I’d like to look for—the spry-blossom, called Phoebe There is nought as virtuous, or saintly, as the white gypsy... I’d like to find me—that last green forget-me-not
Compare the woodpigeon to a street pigeon There couldn’t be amongst equal’s two more apart Ones dignified, as if by religion Chosen; and then given a full head start.
