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: #B0A190
RGB: 176 161 144
RGB: 176 161 144
HEX: #C2BCA3
RGB: 194 188 163
RGB: 194 188 163
HEX: #D9A289
RGB: 217 162 137
RGB: 217 162 137
HEX: #D1CAB2
RGB: 209 202 178
RGB: 209 202 178
HEX: #E2DDCB
RGB: 226 221 203
RGB: 226 221 203
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.
