For A Picture Of St. Dorothea

 I bear a basket lined with grass;
I am so light, I am so fair,
That men must wonder as I pass
And at the basket that I bear,
Where in a newly-drawn green litter
Sweet flowers I carry, -- sweets for bitter.
Lilies I shew you, lilies none, None in Caesar's gardens blow, -- And a quince in hand, -- not one Is set upon your boughs below; Not set, because their buds not spring; Spring not, 'cause world is wintering.
But these were found in the East and South Where Winter is the clime forgot.
-- The dewdrop on the larkspur's mouth O should it then be quenchèd not? In starry water-meads they drew These drops: which be they? stars or dew? Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze: Rather it is the sizing moon.
Lo, linkèd heavens with milky ways! That was her larkspur row.
-- So soon? Sphered so fast, sweet soul? -- We see Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.

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