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.
old stone bridge:
weeds grow in its cracks,
its river ran dry.
I fear’d the fury of my wind
Would blight all blossoms fair & true,
And my sun it shin’d & shin’d,
And my wind it never blew.
But a blossom fair or true
Was not found on any tree;
For all blossoms grew & grew
Fruitless, false, tho’ fair to see.
unfurled buds,
not drooped to gravity,
tell Spring’s story.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 