The battle with the deep white troops,
Who whip around and fly in loops,
Is over and the dove doth sing,
A mournful song that seems to ring
With the message of the death,
The stop, of green and lively breath.
The white, as if in pondering,
Ceaces quiet wondering.
Stitched across this quiet place,
A blanket of satin and ivory lace,
Which climbs upon each hill and dale,
And traps the delicate ant and snail
The barks and meows and clicks and whir,
And other things that chat and stir,
Is over and the dove doth sing,
A mournful song that seems to ring
With the message of the death,
The stop, of green and lively breath.
|
|
