Flowers—Well—if anybody Can the ecstasy define— Half a transport—half a trouble— With which flowers humble men: Anybody find the fountain From which floods so contra flow— I will give him all the Daisies Which upon the hillside blow.
Too much pathos in their faces For a simple breast like mine— Butterflies from St. Domingo Cruising round the purple line— Have a system of aesthetics— Far superior to mine.
