1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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