While crowbars fail on lias: so with song:
The Doom is born in each thing’s primitive stuff.
Perchance he understood not; yet I thrust
Some hypodermic hope within his flesh,
Unconsciously; erelong he came again.
Would I but see his latest? I did see;
Shuddered and answered him in a sterner wise.
I love to put the bars up, shutting out
My pasture from the thistle-cropping beasts
Or squealing hybrids, who have range enough