AFTER MRS. R. H. STODDARD
THE NETTLE
IF days were nights, I could their weight endure,
This darkness cannot hide from me the plant
I seek; I know it by the rasping touch.
The moon is wrapped in bombazine of cloud;
The capes project like crooked lobster-shears
Into the bobbery of the waves; the marsh,
At ebb, has now a miserable smell.