Ring true, fair reaper; he who sows the bell
Wishes you to hear, and, to hear him well.
In the chorus of the field, can you feel
With felt fingers the sun-clothed virgin peal?
Can you invent from your loss your Morel,
And, with your longing paint like Raphael—
Paint a pleasurection on the Great Seal—
The kind you both crossed after his last meal?
Jaunt in your joust to your just belovèd.
In your haste, handle what you held and had.
Unclasp not your toil from your attaché,
But, make it your business to make way
For him—his word is flesh scantily clad—
And, its knell resounds for you nude and glad.
(Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet,
Chevalier de Lamarck, did not display
When he taught that what the father once sought
Is in his son after him to be wrought.)
You should grasp the cord and hold it, hold tight;
And, with your peppered zeal taste at first light
The pull, of a tongue tasting taste forgot.
For, the field brings belles more often than not
Who, ladygraces, will sound to you quite
A chorus of hearts smouldering alight.