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: #6988E1
RGB: 105 136 225
RGB: 105 136 225
HEX: #8FA8F0
RGB: 143 168 240
RGB: 143 168 240
HEX: #96CC0D
RGB: 150 204 13
RGB: 150 204 13
HEX: #C6D7EB
RGB: 198 215 235
RGB: 198 215 235
HEX: #E6EFF2
RGB: 230 239 242
RGB: 230 239 242
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.
