How the cocker barked at a pathway snail,
And how we laughed as he posed and pranced:
That he, some inches more advanced
In mind along its infinite scale
Than the earthy crone in a hood of lime,
Should boast in such ferocious rhyme.

Then, on the last long wave of chime,
Deaf Aunt Angela poised, and glared
At our smart young friend from Oxford town.
His was that air of weary scorn
For all things old when he was born.
Deaf? She heard him, she declared,
Sneering her ancient flowered gown
And its puckered foam of furbelow.
She primmed and stiffened: "Young man, good night.
You have travelled a bit, you have far to go.
It's a wonderful feat to shed a tail,
But there's room for more on your infinite scale…"

As he went, the windmill-sail
Quickened its whirl, fresh laughter spanned
The wild young corn of that rain-washed land;
Drop in its yellowy greenness lit
Fell with our showers begot of her wit,
And through distorting mirrors of tears
That landscape leapt, and then stood still,
Watching tall Angela's burning ears
And Arty Oxon fuming uphill
And the dog running circles in mad delight.