馃幍 馃幍Cedars in a mist, a man of rueful name馃幍 馃幍Cedars was a friend of the maturing child馃幍 馃幍Conspiring with him, how to loathe him馃幍 馃幍Blessed with proof to bind his dirt around the fact she's run馃幍 馃幍To bend the apples, the mossy cordage tree馃幍 馃幍Fill a fruit with rice to the core馃幍 馃幍To swell the gourd and plump the hazel馃幍 馃幍Shall be days we can do said budding more馃幍 馃幍And still more, later flowers for the bees馃幍 馃幍Until they think warm days will never cease馃幍 馃幍For summer has a brim that clammy sells馃幍 馃幍 馃幍You have not seen me after midnight storm馃幍 馃幍Sometimes every six o'clock may find馃幍 馃幍Me sitting careless on the granary floor馃幍 馃幍My head soft lifted by the window馃幍 馃幍Or on the hurry for a sound sleep馃幍 馃幍Drowsed by the fumes of poppies while thy hoop馃幍 馃幍Spars the next swath of it hoops馃幍 馃幍Twining flowers in like a gleaner sometimes thou does the keep馃幍 馃幍Keep steady thy latent header you cross a brook馃幍 馃幍By a cider press with patient look馃幍 馃幍Thou watch'st their lust oozing towers by hour馃幍 馃幍 馃幍Where are the songs of spring I wear a nighting馃幍 馃幍Think not of them now as thy music to boo馃幍 馃幍While bar clouds bloom the song thy day and roof馃幍 馃幍Touch the subtle plains in rosy hue馃幍 馃幍Lay in a whale quiet and small and still馃幍 馃幍On the riverside is born a lullaby馃幍 馃幍Sinking as the light wind lits the night馃幍 馃幍Full burn lambs now bleat from hidden bone馃幍 馃幍Hedge crickets sing and now we travel soft馃幍 馃幍The red breast whistles from garden croft馃幍 馃幍Gathering swallows twitter in the sky馃幍 馃幍