Certain as Nature’s self, this type endureth:
On Skindles’ lawn, in jungles of Sumatra,
She blooms—a wax-white weed that no rake cureth:
From Westminster to wats of Pura Chatra,
Her false lips smile, her gladsome optic lureth:
WAAC’s may be WREN’s; wars, peace; to-day’s full Colonel,
To-morrow’s clerk ... but Jill is sempiternal.
VI.
Continues—symptomatically terse—