With eyes—you cannot see above one pair,
For city clouds of black and yellow—
And artificial flowers, rose, leaf, and bud,
Such sable lilies
And grim daffodilies
Drooping, but not for drought, O Lud! O Lud!
I may as well, while I’m inclined,
Just go through all the faults I find:
Oh Lud! then, with a better air, say June,
Could’st thou not find a better tune