…
’Tis thy affection’s on tip of a golden string,
With salt box of my minds chattering in beseech,
Thou art canvas for a willow I never leaned on,
Plain ov’r which’s to get dusty lips I never briefly touched.
‘Tis thy presence in the garden we used to chase ‘round,
With plaque plagued of need for a wanion-of leech,
Thou art harasser conveyin’ con-free childhood,
Struggle which’s to cut th’ willow I anon leaned on,
Escape to which’s to see sweven of hands were never mine,
‘Tis how leftst renegatin’ our Wuthering Heights.
