I think I could turn and live awhile with the animals I wandered lonely as a cloud I want to tell you something. In cool noon light, on the edge of spring, In moving-slow he has no Peer.
Some people are flower lovers.
Stop looking like a purse. There once was a Willow, and he was very old, They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of the gardens. Thou hearest the nightingale begin the song of spring. Whose petals answer light, altering by fractions From closed to wide, from one through many perfections, Till wrecked, flamboyant, strayed beyond recall, Like flakes of fire they piecemeal fall. Hear Juliet Stevenson reading Deaths of Flowers in Real Audio.