In the grey definition of her
Sycamore country, her myopic
Flirtations were greyly contrived,
Astigmatically ventured upon.
No wonder they grew vague, were,
In short, short-lived.
It was not as though not seeing
Dimensionally produced that wise state
In which abstractions are most immediately fattened;
It was only, I fear, somewhat in her geography
Which ran to the fact, bless her poor hurricane heart!
That her spheres were flattened.
And being so set upon by poles and equators
And seasons past her knowing, not being able
To tell the twig from leaf, this was her worry:
When caution figures distance, to overcome
Linearly before lovably the required ground
And come most frighteningly upon her quarry
Who fled at her peerings as at a call
Of trampled death in the white wood around,
Leaving alone her too enchanted face,
Syntactically an error, since she discovered
Her objects proper nominatives, and she
As wont a most accusative case!
Yet mostly she forgot with morning.
Eternally refreshed and hopened by beautiful enterprise,
She wrapped her bright hair in bright restriction
Around her expectant skull, and loved forth
With blinks and babble. To her nephew this seemed
The exquisite whip of his lateral auntly affliction.
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