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��PATTERNS
I WALK down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.
My dress is richly figured, And the train
]\Iakes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me. Only whale-bone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills u
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