Gets better as the skies grow strange
With coils of smoke about them curled.
If the old days were not the best
Ere printed formulas conveyed
Sorrow about that silken vest
For all eternity mislaid;
Ere yet the unwieldy motor-van
Came clattering round the kerbstone's brink,
Its driver dreaming some new plan
To make my mauve pyjamas shrink.