Birthday poems/ page 2 of 16 /
Richard, quoth Matt, these words of thine
Speak something sly and something fine;
But I shall e'en resume my theme,
However thou may'st praise or blame.
On this wild waste, where never blossom came,
Save the white wind-flower to the billow's cap,
Or those pale disks of momentary flame,
Loose petals dropped from Dian's careless lap,
What far fetched influence all my fancy fills,
With singing birds and dancing daffodils?
HERE were the end, had anything an end:
Thus, lit and launched, up and up roared and soared
DO you see this Ring?
Tis Rome-work, made to match