There's the seer of frolicking clouds posed:
Suddenly, the sky's streams -
Made of melt that the sun creams,
They gloom her dull eyes with dreams
While the umbrella relinquishes closed.

There's the little gyre of a colour:
She'd made the choice of shade -
Brought, no silence, no parade
Or a lively barricade,
While she lived in natural poise, solar.

Who's wearing sundays
Songs jejune peruses;
May her corsage roses
Dress the fine arrays!

And gathered 'round strays,
Each of them amuses
Their eyes with their noses
For depots off ways.

The fantastic plays
Out of them her bruises;
Songs fed by drunk proses
May enchant in rays!

Clambering a tree,
That i thought was tall,
I thought i could be
Sat too high to fall.

Seating i could heed,
Sat upon a wold,
I'd clambered a seed
That thought had not fouled.

There was time too few
For a childish smile,
Time too few, but a weary while.

The days passing flew
From one's hands futile,
They sure flew, but through a clogged mile.

Then the skies were blue
And the rain not vile,
Skies were blue, in an astir isle.