1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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