Dear Bell, I enclose what you ask in a letter, A short rhyme at random, no more and no less, And you may insert it, for want of a better, Or leave it, it doesn't much matter, I guess;...
Through the lattice rushes the south wind, dense With fumes of the flowery frankincense From hawthorn blossoming thickly; And gold is shower'd on grass unshorn, And poppy-fire on shuddering corn,...