I bear a basket lined with grass;
I am so light, I am so fair,
That men must wonder as I pass
And at the basket that I bear,
Where in a newly-drawn green litter
Sweet flowers I carry, sweets for bitter.
Lilies I shew you, lilies none,
None in Caesar’s gardens blow,
And a quince in hand, not one
Is set upon your boughs below;
Not set, because their buds not spring;
Spring not, ’cause world is wintering.
But these were found in the East and South
Where Winter is the clime forgot.
The dewdrop on the larkspur’s mouth
O should it then be quenchèd not?
In starry water-meads they drew
These drops: which be they? stars or dew?
Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze:
Rather it is the sizing moon.
Lo, linkèd heavens with milky ways!
That was her larkspur row. So soon?
Sphered so fast, sweet soul? We see
Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.