The Canterbury bells ring
every day at four o' clock
when the lassie panting
in a baby’s breath
fox gloved and in cotton
run across being
love in a mist, awaiting
the lads, prim in their
bachelor’s button, for the
kiss-me-over-the-garden
the customary rite of love
in the morning glory
of the day after
black eyed Susan vine
remained a wallflower
in the Chinese houses
while the bells of Ireland
rang in the cosmos.
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