Sonnet

IS there a great green commonwealth of Thought

Which ranks the yearly pageant, and decides

How Summer’s royal progress shall be wrought,

By secret stir which in each plant abides?

Does rocking daffodil consent that she,

The snowdrop of wet winters, shall be first?

Does spotted cowslip with the grass agree

To hold her pride before the rattle burst?

And in the hedge what quick agreement goes,

When hawthorn blossoms redden to decay,

That Summer’s pride shall come, the Summer’s rose,

Before the flower be on the bramble spray?

Or is it, as with us, unresting strife,

And each consent a lucky gasp for life?