I can write no stately proem

　　As a prelude to my lay；

　　From a poet to a poem

　　I would dare to say.

　　For if of these fallen petals

　　One to you seem fair，

　　Love will waft 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.