Parading

To walk abroad is, not with eyes,

This ecstasy that plants beauty

Why with the time do I not glance aside

Rich doldrums / Full of gold

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

as the women harvest the slopes,

It is hard even to admit this theory of hats, that to wear

Bookshelves hold up

The thunderous music peals

that wonderful, old-fashioned word, wend,