He passed, he plucked by threes and fours
Till wheels whirled in his head.
But long before the drug could tell,
He took his anodyne;
With scornful grace, he bowed farewell
And retraversed the line.
Saturday’s Child
SOME are teethed on a silver spoon,
With the stars strung for a rattle;
I cut my teeth as the black raccoon—