Too large for the word's control,
That goes not down in London town
Where dogg'd conventions stick,
And dancers still must charm with frill,
Or "make shymnastic drick."
As the jungle king with his wrathful spring,
To the lamb that aptly bleats,
As the trumpet's blare to the palsied air
Of that which plays in pleats,
So is east to west, with its sun-born zest,