My heart was a graveyard before you came
Your arrival was violently gentle
So aggressively you made my barren land your own;
You took my dead trees and breathed life into them as you did me
...
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.