So many hills I have seen
That grow so soft and thick and green.
Though jagged rocks sit down below
The grass and shrubs and weeds that grow
Through cracks and gaps, in mud patches --
Sprawling wide from tight-knit batches
That stone cannot constrain or kill.
summer grasses
wave atop a once mighty fort
that's gone to seed.
lone Dog-rose bloom
sways in a Spring breeze,
lulling into trance.
Thou strainest through the mountain fern,
A most exiguously thin
Burn.
For all thy foam, for all thy din,
Thee shall the pallid lake inurn,
With well-a-day for Mr. Swin-
Burne!
Take then this quarto in thy fin
And, O thou stoker huge and stern,
The whole affair, outside and in,
Burn!
But save the true poetic kin,
The works of Mr. Robert Burn'
And William Wordsworth upon Tin-
Tern!
gone to fluff:
flowers quietly await a
good, stiff breeze.
crown flower buds
begin to split, but only one
takes the first peek.
bright flowers
dance in a breeze,
beside the castle wall.
solitary flower
bows in a Spring breeze --
then stands upright.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 