I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But in embalmed darkness,guess each sweet
wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass ,the thicket and the fruit tree wild;
White hawthorn , and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets coverd up in leaves
And mid May´s eldest child,
The coming musk rose , full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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