I bear a basket lined with grass;   
I am so light, I am so fair,   
That men must wonder as I pass   
And at the basket that I bear,   
Where in a newly-drawn green litter          
Sweet flowers I carry,—sweets for bitter.   
   
Lilies I shew you, lilies none,   
None in Caesar’s gardens blow,—   
And a quince in hand,—not one   
Is set upon your boughs below;   
Not set, because their buds not spring;   
Spring not, ’cause world is wintering.   
   
But these were found in the East and South   
Where Winter is the clime forgot.—   
The dewdrop on the larkspur’s mouth    
O should it then be quench`d not?   
In starry water-meads they drew   
These drops: which be they? stars or dew?   
   
Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze:   
Rather it is the sizing moon.    
Lo, linkèd heavens with milky ways!   
That was her larkspur row.—So soon?   
Sphered so fast, sweet soul?—We see   
Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.