O stagnant east-wind, palsied mare Giddap! The ruby roses' hair Must blow Behold how order is the end Of everything. The roses bend As one Order, the law of hoes and rakes May be perceived in windy quakes And squalls The gardener searches earth and sky The truth in nature to espy In vain He well might find that eager balm In lilies' stately-statued calm; But then He well might find it in this fret Of lilies rusted, rotting, wet With Rain |