  To yon light troop, who fly On wing that hurries by The wide world over, And with soft sibilance Bid every shadow dance Of the glad cover. These violets I consign Lilies and sops-in-wine Roses, all yours, These roses vermeil-tinctured Their graces new-uncinctured And gilly-flowers. So with your gentle breath Blow on the plain beneath Through my grange blow, What time I swink and strain, Winnowing my golden grain In noontide’s glow. |
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