Fun. September, 1865.
The Quest of Barparlo.
So, gat me to the oaken, gnarlèd man,
That sat within the sounding-gate, half-wrapt,
Encumbered by three-cornered phantasies,
Hard-lipped, and low’ring like an autumn sky
When winter jostles in before his time,
Powdering his silvern breath against the brown.
Now, thought I, if mayhap by time or tide,