From ebony your hand has carved
A mask for mirth, and you are starved
For fruit that leaves upon the mouth
Not honey-sweetness of the south,
But acid for a tempered taste.
No silken girdle binds your waist,
But crinkled silver, set with gree [...]
Do you like my yellow leaves
That rustled once in Arden,
Or will you have rosemary
From an English garden?
Small hard berries redden now
On that treeless hill,
Near them bends a late blue larkspur
One more frost will kill.
You may have [...]