Poet 11586

Romantic squalor garden scene

All around the water hollow'd
Including I,
Thetrees move to see their arms that quiver
And often in the rain they waver,
There's a bound of space between you and I, bird,
Lest it is the gold topped pines
Crept over like a fine cloak
Muted laborious withering straw,
And how you sway enlivens me once more