Clear weather lighted my room,
Unaware dark crawled into the shadow of the broom,
What might follow the glance of the eye of the light,
Into the bitter which always craved to be better,
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.