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Poem	A simple nosegay! Was that much to ask? (Winter still nagged, with scarce a bud yet showing.) He loved her ill, if he resigned the task. 'Somewhere,' she cried, 'there must be blossom blowing.' It seems my lady wept and the troll swore By Heaven he hated tears: he'd cure her spleen - Where she had begged one flower he'd shower fourscore, A bunch fit to amaze a China Queen. Cold fog-drawn Lily, pale mist-magic Rose He conjured, and in a glassy cauldron set WIth elvish unsubstantial Mignonette And such vague blooms as wandering dreams enclose. But she? Awed, Charmed to tears, Distracted, Yet - Even yet, perhaps, a trifle piqued - who knows?
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