Friend Hedylus' cloak is a sight to behold, It's ragged, it's tattered, it's battered, it's old, Not the handles of flaggons grown smoother from wear, Not the legs of chained asses more mangy and bare, Not the ruts of a highway where market carts meet, Not the round shining pebbles on which the waves beat, The rags of dead paupers, spades ground by the soil, Nor the cart wheel made bright in its circular toil, Not the flank of the bison, rubbed raw in his lair, Not an old boar's white tusk ground down to a stump, Are so worn as old Hedylus' cloak, yet I'd swear That his cloak's much less worn than the hole in his rump. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DEFILED SANCTUARY by WILLIAM BLAKE TO THE MEMORY OF MR. OLDHAM by JOHN DRYDEN PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 34. THE DARK GLASS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI A MINUET ON REACHING THE AGE OF FIFTY by GEORGE SANTAYANA |