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: #F3AACC
RGB: 243 170 204
RGB: 243 170 204
HEX: #F8CAB6
RGB: 248 202 182
RGB: 248 202 182
HEX: #F9D2A7
RGB: 249 210 167
RGB: 249 210 167
HEX: #D4F3AA
RGB: 212 243 170
RGB: 212 243 170
HEX: #F6F8B6
RGB: 246 248 182
RGB: 246 248 182
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.
