Whose molten-tinted wing but spoke the song
Of fluttering joy, and in thy very hand
Turned to motley gray. Then thinkest thou
To build the garden back by trickery?
And then, some six months after her first visit, came the poem which follows, and which may be considered the real beginning of her larger works:
Long lines of leaden cloud; a purple sea;
White gulls skimming across the spray.
Oh dissonant cry! Art thou
The death cry of desire?
Ah, wail, ye winds,