Let them return, saying you blush again for the great
Great-grandmother. It's all like Christmas.
     When you sprouted Paradise a discard of chewing-gum 
took place. Up jug to musical hanging jug just gay spiders 
yoked you first, “ silking of shadows good underdrawers for 
owls.
     First-plucked before and since the flood, old hypnotisms 
wrench the golden boughs. Leaves spatter dawn from emerald 
cloud-sprockets. Fat final prophets with lean bandits crouch:
the dusk is close
                                      Under your noon,
                                      you Sun-heap whose
ripe lanterns gush history, recondite lightnings, irised.
                                      O mister Se±or
                                      missus Miss
                                      Mademoiselle
                                      with baskets
                                                    Maggy, come on