But sun had warmed the drowsy flies
Before he met his daughter’s eyes.
A new-got purse knocked at his side;
Oh rich was William Habberton!
“You’ve mounted roses like a bride.
Take heed they be not withered soon.”
· · · · ·
The dry leaves whirled in yellow and brown
Like the tattered rags of a beauty’s gown.
And a chattering wind piped loud of snows