Round every windward stake, or tree, or door,
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly
On coop, or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths.
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn,
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work,
And when his hours are numbered, and the world