And wonder what strange madness troubles them.
Sir Simon Moss, reclining in a chair,
With stout cigar held firm by regular
Well-ordered tusks of tooth, can hear the noise.
Another war? to reap more profits in
Exceeded mortal fortune. Nay; there blazed
Some sorry plague. Perhaps the rabies gript ’em.
Thus he pursues his reading of The Times.
Shrill voices fade, as stars in polychrome
Fade on the cold, grey atmosphere of dawn.