But in her dim fantastic temple bower
The little Chinese puppet sits and sighs,
A dream of far-off wonders in her eyes—
And in her hand a golden tulip flower.
For her the tender firstling tendrils grew;—
Rich crop or meagre, what is that to you?
Instead of it we get an after crop
They kick the tree for, dust and stalk and stem,—
As hemp to silk beside what goes to them—
Guldstad.