Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon，

　　Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone，

　　But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle；

　　Master the night nor serve the snowman's brain

　　That shapes each bushy item of the air

　　Into a polestar pointed on an icicle.

　　Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel's eggs，

　　Nor hammer back a season in the figs，

　　But graft these four-fruited ridings on your country；

　　Farmer in time of frost the burning leagues，

　　By red-eyed orchards sow the seeds of snow，

　　In your young years the vegetable century.

　　And father all nor fail the fly-lord's acre，

　　Nor sprout on owl-seed like a goblin-sucker，

　　But rail with your wizard's ribs the heart-shaped planet；

　　Of mortal voices to the ninnies' choir，

　　High lord esquire， speak up the singing cloud，

　　And pluck a mandrake music from the marrowroot.

　　Roll unmanly over this turning tuft，

　　O ring of seas， nor sorrow as I shift

　　From all my mortal lovers with a starboard smile；

　　Nor when my love lies in the cross-boned drift

　　Naked among the bow-and-arrow birds

　　Shall you turn cockwise on a tufted axle.

　　Who gave these seas their colour in a shape，

　　Shaped my clayfellow， and the heaven's ark

　　In time at flood filled with his coloured doubles；

　　O who is glory in the shapeless maps，

　　Now make the world of me as I have made

　　A merry manshape of your walking circle.