The Furl of Fresh-Leaved Dogrose Down
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he furl of fresh-leaved dogrose downHis cheeks the forth-and-flaunting sunHad swarthed about with lion-brownBefore the Spring was done. His locks like all a ravel-rope’s-end,With hempen strands in spray—Fallow, foam-fallow, hanks—fall’n off their ranks,Swung down at a disarray. Or like a juicy and jostling shockOf bluebells sheaved in MayOr wind-long fleeces on the flockA day off shearing day. Then over his turnиd temples—here—Was a rose, or, failing that,Rough-Robin or five-lipped campion clearFor a beauty-bow to his hat,And the sunlight sidled, like dewdrops, like dandled diamondsThrough the sieve of the straw of the plait.. . . . . . .
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