I
TALL cranes with wooden bodices
Stuffed full of shadow odyssies.
They hiss like geese through schoolroom
bars
At the bright flower-show of the stars.
The houses (children’s bricks) float by
On swords of moonshine, cry and sigh.
The schoolmen spray with glittering laughter
This flower-show, budding strangely after.
“Our map-like cheeks are painted red
Where sawdust gods were pierced and bled
“By all this moonshine, and we feel
Blood should be dry,”—Erazureel
Cried; “Blue, pink, yellow planets, bright
Flowers frilled as seas breathe in the night;
These frillèd pinks, so neat and nice,
We’ll teach to turn the world to ice.
Our science then can soon inure
The stars to blossom from manure;
The world will be all map-like, plain
As our lined cheeks, and once again
The soul (moot point) will scarce intrude
Its lack of depth and magnitude!”