I Bended Unto Me A Bough of May

  I bended unto me a bough of May,
  That I might see and smell:
  It bore it in a sort of way,
  It bore it very well.
  But, when I let it backward sway,
  Then it were hard to tell
  With what a toss, with what a swing,
  The dainty thing
  Resumed its proper level,
  And sent me to the devil.
  I know it did-you doubt it?
  I turned, and saw them whispering about it.