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A bough the larder hangs upon— Rats, and decaying hedge-hogs grown Shapeless, and owls their features gone,— A grisly freight, And many a weasel skeleton With hairless pate,
And trophy of cats’ tails arrayed, Tabby and white and black displayed, The adornment of the still green glade— More gay for that Of him who in the morning strayed, The ginger cat.
She knows it, and she cuts it down; Then warm beneath her folded gown Bestows the severed brush’s brown And orange bands— So soft of fur, the tears fall down Upon her hands.
The copse-wood parts, ’tis she who goes, Whom shades obscure and star-light shows, Treading between the hazel rows The fallen sticks, Home, where the careless fire-light glows Along the bricks.
Μονοχρόνος Ἡδόνη.
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Pull out my couch across the fire, Let the flames warm me through, Though the pain gnaw my back away There shall be pleasure too!
Search out the desolate garden walks— What though the year be spent— There shall be marigolds enough For the bowl we bought in Ghent: