O'er stone paths the roses grow still as a ditty,
When light lamps are paling the ripe summer oil;
With a noise that the left ear blocks rushed in a hurry,
The hawthorns are fierce, till the black thorns are pretty.
Where the mind is at once full of peace, full of pieces,
In shrubs there are stubs made from wagtails and hen,
Tin, copper, unfathomed: a marvellous city,
In comfort the day loses its din as it ceases.
Skimming at milk with the tightest lipped marrow,
Left hands, right lobes singed, as it curdles to putty;
The bones of the fair-folk are lost in the morrow,
And our hands meet the roses, so we'll grasp them in pity.
Our four feet go kicking, at that hard wall we're sitting;
But the hawthorns are wet, and the hawthorns are sticky.