Pointing a tremulous fester, both blue and old until the morn, Who were the buds of overside, those ending keenly at curly nail-tips, and whitened chalky manes; A muscled crypt of myrtle borne and seaside shallow? Crows with beating burly stalks, a thistle bird of sickly feathers. Those mercy words that swell the moving butter churns, turn to ice before the quail, egg and all are none the master, nor do the pine bark sing in lofty tails. When hearth or bracken, the skeletal birds of mine to keep, do suffer seek me, a pretty child, the virulent member or monstrosity come; hither there be no rhyme to coddle, as reek I do of morning chill or ported wine. A murky shire of chestnut trees are moaning, that cold burrow song, a priceless dog or soldier keep me not afraid. An hour of sleep before the morrow, spent and careful into the farrow. Fields are kept a plenty by the shrouded dowsing rod. Books are blackened, warming hands like spreads of ballads, the honey pot, a ripened callous, where hands meet gloom and loamy earth. Inside the keepers graze a jealous muffling hum, while parts of me reside within that rotting, muddy study.