The sea, a parquet of coloured wood;
The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges;
Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames;
Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering,
Eyelids winking over watchet eyes.
The Retort Discourteous
They say we like London—O Hell!—
They tell
Us we shall never sell
Our works (as if we cared).