I can write no stately proem

　　As a prelude¹ to my lay；

　　From a poet to a poem

　　I would dare to say.

　　For if of these fallen petals²

　　One to you seem fair，

　　Love will waft³ it till it settles

　　On your hair.

　　And when wind and winter harden

　　All the loveless land，

　　It will whisper of the garden，

　　You will understand.