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. Wading knee-deep among the scarlet flowers. The sunlight, zithering their flanks with fire, Flashes between the shadows as they pass Barred with electric tremors through the grass Like wind along the gold strings of a lyre.