Sylph



                 There is none so quixotic a pitch,
                       As one's pulse on a sleeve-hand stitch.

               Come,
                   (I would you would)
                   From the sour soil.

               Away from your paint-pots
                   And Ink.

               There an ill-favoured coign to crib,
                   And soft to sink.

            There, the postern, its ward a-clink.

               Under soot and link ,a crock of
                   Parching oil.

               Come to unkiss.
                   And watch the cream spoil.



                                     For Meegin


Crowkeeper (Cornelius Scarecrow esquire)