The Cowslip Is A Country Wench.

My Tears Must Stop, For Every Drop Hinders Needle And Thread.

A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring , :;:; Must Be A Spoon.

She Stood Breast-high Amid The Corn Clasp'd By The Golden Light Of Morn, Like The Sweetheart Of The Sun, Who Many A Glowing Kiss Had Won.

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

Such A Blush In The Midst Of Brown Was Born, Like Red Poppies Grown With Corn.