"But most by numbers judge a poet's Song
& smooth or rough with them is right or wrong...
while they ring round the same unvarying chimes
with sure returns of still expected rhymes
where'er you find the cooling western breeze
in the next line it whispers through the trees-- "
Yet let me live where such a tree
warms up the World
deep down the throat of its so cold Infinity:
Heart with joy bounds
hearing those sounds
sticking her clumsy fingers in th'hairs of trees