White dust and grey dust, fleeting tree and tower,
Brass horns and copper horns, blowing loud and bluff ...
Someone's bound for Sussex, at eleven miles an hour;
And, when the long horns blow,
From the wheels below
Barks the swift Dalmatian, tongued like an apple-flower.
Big domes and little domes, donkey-carts that jog,
High stocks and low pumps and admirable snuff ...
Someone strolls at Brighton, not very much incog.;
And, panting on the grass,