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: #BC2B0E
RGB: 188 43 14
RGB: 188 43 14
HEX: #FF7F18
RGB: 255 127 24
RGB: 255 127 24
HEX: #662107
RGB: 102 33 7
RGB: 102 33 7
HEX: #FFA019
RGB: 255 160 25
RGB: 255 160 25
HEX: #FBD143
RGB: 251 209 67
RGB: 251 209 67
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.
