The lily's cup which hardly moists the field.
On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea.
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Still the air is chill and raw,
Here and there a patch of snow,
Dirtier than the ground below,
Dribbles down a marshy flood;
Ankle-deep you stick in mud
In the meadows while you sing,
"This is Spring."
HEX: #93859A
RGB: 147 133 154
RGB: 147 133 154
HEX: #9EBFA3
RGB: 158 191 163
RGB: 158 191 163
HEX: #381A2E
RGB: 56 26 46
RGB: 56 26 46
HEX: #CAD69D
RGB: 202 214 157
RGB: 202 214 157
HEX: #E8E1BF
RGB: 232 225 191
RGB: 232 225 191
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair, and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.
