Old
  Sir
   Faulk,
  Tall as a stork,
Before the honeyed fruits of dawn
were ripe, would walk,
And stalk with a gun
The reynard-coloured sun,
Among the pheasant-feathered corn
the unicorn has torn, forlorn
 the
Smock-faced sheep
Sit
 and
  sleep;
Periwigged as William and Mary, weep...
"Sally, Mary, Mattie, what's the
matter, why cry?"
The huntsman and the reynard-
coloured sun and I sigh;
"Oh, the nursery-maid Meg
With a leg like a peg
Chased the feathered dreams like
hens, And when they laid an egg
In the sheepskin
Meadows
Where
The serene King James would steer
Horse and hounds, then he
From the shade of a tree
Picked it up as spoil to boil for
nursery tea", said the mourners.
In the
Corn, towers strain,
Feathered tall as a crane,
And whistling down the feathered
rain, Old Noah goes again -
An old dull mome
With a head like a pome,
Seeing the world as a bare egg,
Laid by the feathered air: Meg
Would beg three of these
For the nursery teas
Of Japhet, Shem and Ham,
she gave it
Underneath the trees,
Where the boiling
 Water,
  Hissed,
Like the goose-king's feathered
daughter-kissed,
Pot and pan and copper kettle
Put upon their proper mettle,
Lest the Flood - the Flood - The
Flood begin again through these!