With clamour, if a stolid toad should stare
Sleepily forth from the snug corner where
They fain would rest. But I will sympathize
With beetle, rat, and toad. I have no care.
I curse Beelzebub—the God of Flies.
The tiny gnats they swarm in many a cloud,
To tangle their small limbs within my hair
And sting. The blood-flies dart: and buzzing loud
Blue-bottles draw mad patterns on the air.
The house-flies creep, and, what is hard to bear,