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��The patterned garden paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and
to snow. I shall go Up and down. In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from
embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead. Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ ! What are patterns for?
— Amy Loivell.
�� �
