And brown as ripening hazels are.
Thy butter has not lost the voice
Of English meads, where cowslips grow,
And oh, the bacon of thy choice—
Rose-jacinth labyrinthed in snow!
And mutton, colder than the kiss
Of formal love, where loathing lurks
Its deadlier chill doth wholly miss,
Fired with the spirit of thy works.
To true occasion thou art true,