An hundred warblers in the nearest aching gap,
it seems as though it loved its aching
filled with hyper-ikonistic misery.
I did not expect such staggering wealth
to come to me by dawn-delivered stealth,
though morning is the time and spring
the way love knows of its best being.

All through the leaves a burning
rush of gilded, swift, whirling wing.
All warblers of the world have come
to me, and are in me living
I only cool retreat and humble shade giving,
my leaves with excess of sun trampled.

I said an hundred warblers came
to me,
and now that I am clear, what it
was, was very near
it was but two, or three,
But how they fastened me.