Then, as my face still queried, opened wide
The stiff portcullis of his rustic speech,
Whence issued words: “You’d hardly kalkelate
That I’m a poet, but I kind o’ guess
I be one; so the people say to hum.”
Then from his cavernous armpit drew and gave
The singing leaves, not such as erst I knew.
But strange, disjointed, where the unmeasured feet
Staggered allwhither in pursuit of rhyme,
And could not find it: assonance instead,