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Poem	Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know Spring from the woodland vine. No need for bowl or silver spoon, Sugar or spice or cream, Has the wild berry plucked in June Beside the trickling stream. One such to melt at the tongue's root, Confounding taste with scent, Beats a full peck of garden fruit: Which points my argument. May sudden justice overtake And snap the froward pen, That old and palsied poets shake Against the minds of men. Blasphemers trusting to hold caught In far-flung webs of ink, The utmost ends of human thought Till nothing's left to think. But may the gift of heavenly peace And glory for all time Keep the boy Tom who tending geese First made the nursery rhyme.
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