The Furl of Fresh-Leaved Dogrose Down
The furl of fresh—leaved dogrose down
His cheeks the forth—and—flaunting sun
Had swarthed about with lion—brown
Before the Spring was done.
His locks like all a ravel—rope’s—end,
With hempen strands in spray—
Fallow, foam—fallow, hanks—fall’n off their ranks,
Swung down at a disarray.
Or like a juicy and jostling shock
Of bluebells sheaved in May
Or wind—long fleeces on the flock
A day off shearing day.
Then over his turnèd temples—here—
Was a rose, or, failing that,
Rough—Robin or five—lipped campion clear
For a beauty—bow to his hat,
And the sunlight sidled, like dewdrops, like dandled diamonds
Through the sieve of the straw of the plait.
