Sylph



                              There is none so quixotic a pitch,
            As one's pulse on a sleeve-hand stitch.

        Come,
            (I would you would)
            From the sour soil.

        Away from your paint-pots
            And Ink.

        There an ill-favoured coign to crib,
            And soft to sink.

             There, the postern, its ward a-clink.

        Under soot and link ,a crock of
            Parching oil.

        Come to unkiss.
            And watch the cream spoil.



                                      For Meegin


Crowkeeper (Cornelius Scarecrow esquire)