Paid visit a field yea large so gold,
In whose sun taught green be bold,
And so terse the holding blue
So christened a sky lit hue,
Whence neath the feet is stayed
A lark lone till song be paid,
Nor are there hours cool to bring,
Nor would our eyes durst begin:
Then thinks I what wings near
Would I give such penance here,
That I am as thought as ought beguile,
Till noon approach for nought awhile
The slumber of young may soon dispel,
And crease mine heart with cold repel,
The darting words each morn I heard
Now fades to such halo yea niggard,
Till warm apparel make smooth me near,
Till walk more with none no naméd fear.
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