The thorny spines would prick her tenderness.
Ah, where then doth she bide?
I asked the frost who stood
Upon the fringéd grasses ’neath the oak.
“I know her not, but I
Am ever bidden to her feast.
Ask thou the sparrow of the field.
He searcheth everywhere; perchance
He knoweth where she bides.”
“Nay, I know her not,