Behind museum doors, these gypsy kings!
I’d set them singing, tucked beneath the chins
Of fiddler-folk whose fingers know the way,
Prancing like peacocks up the four gay strings!
Bavarian Roadside
Leave the chicory where it stands,
It will wither in your hands
If you pick it;
All its lovely blue will blacken
To a dull weed dry as bracken,