1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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