In the ripeness and completeness
Of the gold and crimson fruitage that my heart has harvested.
WHEREFORE WINGS?
Heigho, sparrow! Reckless of the rain;
When chill the cheerless wind grows,
Chirping might and main!
Is it naught, then, when the rose
Blows again?
Beating, sleeting on your draggled coat!
Surely, ’tis enough to drown