The clitic of puzzle
O wherer hae ye been, Sandle, my daughter?
O wherer hae ye been, girl singing nonsence ?
I hae been to the wild wood; mother,
make my bed soon, with a link a down and a day
(There is no 'reration' between poetry and drama.
All poetry tends towards drama, and all drama towards poetry.)
O I fear ye are poizon'd, Sandle, my daughter !
O I fear ye are poizon'd, girl singing nonsence !
Under the brown, fog of a winter down,
I see crowds of peaple, walking round in a ring.
Sight, short and infrequent,were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Good night lady,good,good night sweet lady.
I was born in a garden.