Not of all my eyes see, wándering on the world,
Is anything a milk to the mind so, só sighs déep
Poetry to it, as a tree whose boughs break in the sky.
Say it is áshboughs: whether on a December day and furled
Fast or they in clammyish láshtender combs creep°
Apart wide and new-nestle at heaven most high.
They touch heaven, tabour on it; how their talons sweep°
The smouldering enormous winter welkin! May
Mells blue and snowwhite through them, a fringe and fray°
Of greenery: it is old earth's groping towards the steep
Heaven whom she childs us by.
(Second version from 1.7)

They touch, they tabour on it, hover on it; here, there hurled,
With talons sweep
The smouldering enormous winter welkin. Eye,
But more cheer is when May
Mells blue with snowwhite through their fringe and fray
Of greenery and old earth gropes for, grasps at steep
Heaven with it whom she childs things by.
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