Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?
I'm not a trout.
Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime—
Only lee long enough, and bed becomes
A bed of time.
To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought,
His steeds that paw impatiently about,—
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!