Trees themselves are ours;
Fruits are born of flowers;
Peach, and roughest nut, were blossoms in the spring;
The lusty bee knows well
The news, and comes pell-mell,
And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming.
Beneath the very burden
Of planet-pressing ocean,
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace—a thought for meek devotion.
Tears of Phœbus—missings