The swallow flew like lightning over the green And through the gate-bars (a hand's breadth between); He hurled his blackness at that chink and won; The problem scarcely rose and it was done. The spider, chance-confronted with starvation, Took up another airy situation; His working legs, as it appeared to me, Had mastered practical geometry. The old dog dreaming in his frowsy cask Enjoyed his rest and did not drop his task; He knew the person of 'no fixed abode', And challenged as he shuffled down the road. These creatures which (Buffon and I agree) Lag far behind the human faculty Worked out the question set with satisfaction And promptly took the necessary action. By this successful sang-froid I, employed On 'Who wrote Shakespeare?' justly felt annoyed, And seeing an evening primrose by the fence Beheaded it for blooming insolence. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOW CLOSE THE WINDOWS by ROBERT FROST EARLY MORN by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 100 by OMAR KHAYYAM ARMY CORRESPONDENT'S LAST RIDE; FIVE FORKS, APRIL 1, 1865 by GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND |