Here lieth a poor Natural: The Lord who understandeth all Hath opened now his witless eyes On the Green Fields of Paradise. Sunshine or rain, he grinning sat: But none could say at who or what. And all misshapen as he were, What wonder folk would stand and stare? He'd whistle shrill to the passing birds, Having small stock of human words; And all his company belike Was one small hungry mongrel Tyke. Not his the wits ev'n joyed to be When Death approached to set him free -- Bearing th' equality of all, Wherein to attire a Natural. |