(With its one eye out) through a bundle of hay:
When the spirit he grinn’d, and whisper’d me
“Thou’rt now in the Court of Chancery!”
Around me flitted unnumbered swarms
Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;
(Like bottled up babes, that grace the room
Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)—
All of them things half-kill’d in rearing;
Some were lame—some wanted hearing;
Some had through half a century run,