Unshrubbed

Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne'er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter; Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers, And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down, Rich scarf to my proud earth;

From the spot he’s left her in, a blank, unshrubbed bit of service-yard where the earth is worn bald, she can see printed in black cut-out and lamp-glow, her own house.