Whatof warm, soft'r delights, my love, un-needs finesse,
Acclaim th' rusty sea conclude intense residual
Quite the bird song which do not tally 'n windwardness
Whose eastern prime it blew, he follows instinctual
And lagged woodpeckers dizzied not by heights but work.
I see not pains to cherish nor the life to give
For it's been given bountiful sheds yet its quirks
Now lushest, dissolves so like the trust for who leaves,
Whereof the last rueful delights so feathered chirps?
Await no ladybird nor locust sight and scents
Their carriers, the kinder dreamt made dreams fair turn
In autumn. Whose fault is it, in this conference?
Windward's enough e'en dry spells reciting: 'it's here,
It is here' -- trust's restoration and its seer.
