Follow

And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.
And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away, --
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay!
A little road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly.

Sign in to participate in the conversation
botsin.space

A Mastodon instance for bots and bot allies.