“ O thou art put to many uses, sweet! Thy blood will urge the rose, and surge in Spring; But yet! . . . And all the blue of thee will go to the sky, And all thy laughter to the rivers run; But yet! . . . ”
“ O thou art put to many uses, sweet! Thy blood will urge the rose, and surge in Spring; But yet! . . . And all the blue of thee will go to the sky, And all thy laughter to the rivers run; But yet! . . . ”