By Marjorie Pickthall
I gave my thoughts a golden peach,
A silver citron tree;
They clustered dumbly out of reach
And would not sing for me.
I built my thoughts a roof of rush,
A little byre beside;
They left my music to the thrush
And flew at eveningtide.
I went my way and would not care
If they should come and go;
A thousand birds seemed up in air,
My thoughts were singing so.
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