��The patterned garden paths

In my stiff, brocaded gown.

The squills and daffodils

Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and

to snow. I shall go Up and down. In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from

embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead. Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ ! What are patterns for?

— Amy Loivell.

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