There my silence came,
Soft, she clomb the knoll.
There my silence came
To glaze longly intil a well of coal.
Thither she sate, and her
Smilet he kindly rewords,
Silverly, a glimpse to a
Sistering cote of variable birds:
This old beech, martyr'd
Of a mouthed bole.
His longing courb
To bathe a knott'd spur,
Wherein the vaulty root,
A russet-pated fox featly mends his fur.
And as the racking cloud
Bend a pencill'd, metaphysical,bow
There souses, from this nonpareil cope
A fulsome and gorbelli'd crow.
My silence he o'erlooks, his eye of pumpion pale.
Feazed feathers furled,
This misproud sail.
My silence, discoloured, her cheek-roses wither.
Fox flees, birds quiver.
And her hand, to a distempering tremble
Still, goodman crow,enrapt
Jets to and fro
Straight-pight upon talent and night'd toe.
And lo! Look to the gloaming flow.
Long, purpled curtain that rolls
Low, to the steepy highland scaffold.
"Art cold? Come, in pinion
Will I thee enfold.
And upon perfumed night's airy roads,
Shall we otherwhere go?"
-Cornelius Scarecrow esquire