So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly
On coop or kennel he hangs [Parian wreaths];
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Mauger the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate
A [tapering turret] overtops the work.
And when his [hours are numbered], and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art