Out sailing toward the Flowering Quince
The good ship Daniel late from Bristol
Wrecked upon the Plymouth rocks
Of his own yard on his
Own hands and knees
Was it to see the mystery
Of the blood flowing pondering it
Like a child his pain
Suppliant to the flowering quince
Their reds appeared the same
His hands and knees had no idea
They could be such flowers
Nor did the quince cognize
It had such human powers
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