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. His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls home. And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.