Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,
And all least furlable things got “furled”;
Not with any design to conceal their glories,
But simply and solely to rhyme with “world.”
*****
O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,
And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
Could be furled together this genial weather,
And carted, or carried on wafts away,
Nor ever again trotted out—ah me!