I bear a basket lined with grass;
I am so light,
I am so fair,
That men must wonder as I pass And at the basket that I bear,
Where in a newly-drawn green
Sweet flowers I carry,—sweets for bitter.
Lilies I shew you, lilies none,
None in Caesar’s gardens blow,— And a quince in hand,—not one Is set upon your boughs below;
Not set, because their buds not spring;
Spring not, ’cause world is wintering.
But these were found in the East and South Where Winter is the clime forgot.— The dewdrop on the larkspur’s mouthO should it then be quench`d not?
In starry water-meads they drew These drops: which be they? stars or dew?
Had she a quince in hand?
Yet gaze:
Rather it is the sizing moon.
Lo, linkèd heavens with milky ways!
That was her larkspur row.—So soon?
Sphered so fast, sweet soul?—We see Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.
