There is a willow grows askant the brookThat shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.Therewith fantastic garlands did she makeOf cornflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,But our cold maids do “dead men fingers” call them.There on the pendant boughs her coronet weedsClamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,When…