The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun,
Look on quite grave:—the sunlight flecks his side;
And links of bindweed-flowers round him run,
And shine up doubled with him in the tide.
_I’m_ nearly splitting,
But nature seems like seconding his pride,
And thinks that his behaviour’s fitting.
X
That isle o’ mud looks baking dry with gold.
His needle-muzzle still works out and in.
It really is a wonder to behold,
And makes me feel the bristles of my chin.
Judged by appearance,
I fancy of the two I’m nearer Sin,
And might as well commence a clearance.