Our marly road is cracked and white:
There they be, the Spink and Thistle.
O the seed! but O the bristle!
Hovering on the bursting head
(Rough, the more to make him tinkle;
Rough, the more to make him twinkle)
The Goldspink hangs: the down is shed:
October, in thy windy light.

How sweet to think
You, little Spink,
Far back in the abysses deep,
Where thought conditioned fails to sweep,
Rose all a-flutter on the Central Mind!
Pleased with thy archetypal delicate tinklings,
Pleased with thy golden twinklings,
To show thee best,
For man a zest,
He hung thee on the Thistle in the wind.