I bended unto me a Bough

 I bended unto me a bough of May,
That I might see and smell:
It bore it in a sort of way,
It bore it very well.
But, when I let it backward sway, Then it were hard to tell With what a toss, with what a swing, The dainty thing Resumed its proper level, And sent me to the devil.
I know it did--you doubt it? I turned, and saw them whispering about it.

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