“Artisan!” she said. “Infernal tinker!

You are not one of us. Then why do you creep

Each morning, crooked fool, and haunt the man?

You do, in the poor likeness of a mender—

What is it that you mend? What is the word?”

“Stoves.”

“I’ll not pronounce it. Such a word!

I scorn it. And scorn you. And yet I say—

Remember my own strength, that can undo

The cunningest contriver. No more haunt