Beyond Mágdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain,

In Summer, in a burst of summertime

Following falls and falls of rain,

When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower of

Those goldnails and their gaylinks that hang along a lime;

The motion of that man’s heart is fine

Whom want could not make píne, píne

That struggling should not sear him, a gift should cheer him

Like that poor pocket of pence, poor pence of mine.