You’re walking through the woods on a crisp, late October afternoon, smelling the sharp scent of decaying leaves and listening to the dry rustle of beech leaves in the breeze. You decide to take a break, sit on an old stump, munch an apple and observe this amazing world…but, what is that reaching up next ...
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them
There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream. There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them