A well-sped ball goes crushing through him;
But still he rushes on—yet on—
Until, at last, some distance won,
He mounts a fence with a madman's ease,
And this is something of what he sees:
A lonely cottage, some tangled grass,
Thickets of thistles, dock, and mullein;
A forest of weeds he scarce can pass,
A broken chimney, cold and sullen;
Trim housewife-ants, with rush uncertain,