Poetry Archives

Beyond Mágdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain, 
    In Summer, in a burst of summertime
    Following falls and falls of rain,
When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower of
Those goldnails and their gaylinks that hang along a lime;
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
    The motion of that man’s heart is fine
    Whom want could not make píne, píne
That struggling should not sear him, a gift should cheer him
Like that poor pocket of pence, poor pence of mine.