The heat had set in as the summer began
I had just ceased to sing winter's sore tune
And rested my arm on the forgotten farmer
Of all that I can call my fortune
Fall broke the beak of the small bird that beat
In his breast and out through his heels
And I heartsunk to think of it's stammering wing
Beneath heavy and relentless wheels!
I pulled up in the evening while he was still sleeping
Out jumped I and ran 'cross his floor
And there he lay white and a guardian darling
Caught up in slumber and I caught at his door
"He blushes therefore he is guilty," cried I,
"Of some private reverie grand!" So I took him
And shook him and made to unhook him
By squeezing and slapping his hand
The slow work of a blank book hung where we met
And he slept in the depths of his bed
And I, oh, kissed the sweat from his head
Right or wrong, to him alone I come to be fed.
I said, "Come back to me love, come comet or dove,
To my garden, come bladed or bled!"
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