What Is A Modern Poet's

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

Extremes Meet', As The Whiting Said With Its Tail In Its Mouth.

Bells Are Musics Laughter.

No Sun, No Moon, No Morn, No Noon, No Dawn, No Dusk, No Proper Time Of Day, . . . . . . No Road, No Street, No T' Other Side The Way, . . . . . . No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Buds.

Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery Spray.