A
fell bird spits; my gold rose wails
Ice
rots her glow and rays of love
Her
body is puce; tar spews from boils
it
stabs blest eyes that dim to die.
A
foul song whines; the foe gnaws flesh
to
gild his nest with gems of rout.
His
iron mob pulps the air stung red
Barbs
rage in trees and kill like asps
“O
woe fair buds; your reign is ash!”
