Let stay those girls (e’en her disguised
—Jewels i’ the locks that love no crownet like
Their native field-buds and the green wheat spike,
So fair!—who left this end of June’s turmoil,
Shook off, as might a lily its gold soil,
Pomp, save a foolish gem or two, and free
In dream, came to join the peasants o’er the sea.)
Look they too happy, too tricked out? Confess
There is such niggard stock of happiness
To share, that, do one’s uttermost, dear wretch,
One labors ineffectually to stretch
It o’er you so that mother and children, both
May equitably flaunt the sumpter-cloth!
(Reader, are _you_ “must?”)
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