I bear a basket lined with grass; I am so light, I am so fair, That men must wonder as I pass And at the basket that I bear, Where in a newly-drawn green litter Sweet flowers I carry,?sweets for bitter. Lilies I shew you, lilies none, None in Caesar?s gardens blow,? And a quince in hand,?not one Is set upon your boughs below; Not set, because their buds not spring; Spring not, ?cause world is wintering. But these were found in the East and South Where Winter is the clime forgot.? The dewdrop on the larkspur?s mouth O should it then be quench`d not? In starry water-meads they drew These drops: which be they? stars or dew? Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze: Rather it is the sizing moon. Lo, linkèd heavens with milky ways! That was her larkspur row.?So soon? Sphered so fast, sweet soul??We see Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.