I saw your tree-house in a darker garden
Than Headington affords: I see
A boat on real sands unreally,
I played with pigeon post a while,
And learnt to laugh with braggart ease.
Long calm awaited I continent's touch -
That is, the cheeks. But now it is the hair
That holds my thought. I want to know
As clearly as your eyes are grey, just so,
That your hair's brown. Farther yet, if you strive
To make it gold. If so, desist.
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