Upon this leafy
With thorns and roses in it,
Flutters a thing of light,
A twittering Linnet.
And all the throbbing
Of dew and sun and
By this small parcel of
Is made more fair;
As if each
And mounded gold-wreathed furze,
Harebell and little thyme,
Were only hers;
As if this beauty and
Did to one bird belong,
And, at a flutter of wing,
Might vanish in song.
