They have ceased to be even a bore,—

The divine, and the sceptic who mocks;

They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

Envoi

Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,

On the chest without cover or locks,

Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door—

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

Andrew Lang.