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. The chewed dormitory Of a forgotten tribe That layered its wooden pearl. It is a basket of memories, A museum of dead work, The spat Babel of summer With a marvellous language Of common endeavour.