To study as my elm-tree, crow and all,
You still keep staring at. I read your thoughts."
"At last?"
"At first! 'Would, tree, a-top of thee
I wingèd were, like crow perched moveless there,
And so could straightway soar, escape this bore,
Back to my nest where broods whom I love best—
The parson o'er his parish—garish—rarish,'—
Oh, I could bring the rhyme in if I tried:
The Album here inspires me! Quite apart