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00084_Field_Pippa Passes p.3.txt
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1995-11-13
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494b
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11 lines
Morsel after morsel flee
As merrily, as giddily . . .
Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,
Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?
Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?
New-blown and ruddy as St. AgnesΓÇÖ nipple,
Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk birdΓÇÖs poll!
Be sure if corals, branching ΓÇÖneath the ripple
Of ocean, bud there,ΓÇöfairies watch unroll
Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse
Thick red flame through that dusk green universe!