John

by foul air, for rage to keep
all those sights in a high dream,
slow to rise of a patch seams
ire like salt the stars will sweep?

by gates too wise to be still
for the sea is not your ken,
nor do you know why or when
what both day and night have tilled?

Ah! a mole and a frog sulk
the shaft of a white-tailed kite,
eyes keen, beak closed, and coat bulk

that probes which the moon hide might
on her large couch when graced hulks
in front of those with slow weight.