Beyond Mágdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain,
In Summer, in a burst of summertime Following falls and falls of rain,
When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower of Those goldnails and their gaylinks that hang along a lime;. . . . . . . .
The motion of that man’s heart is fine Whom want could not make píne, píne That struggling should not sear him, a gift should cheer him Like that poor pocket of pence, poor pence of mine.. . . . . . . .
