THE harsh bray and hollow Of the pot and the pan Seems Midas defying The great god Apollo! The leaves' great golden crowns Hang on the trees; The maids in their long gowns Hunt me through these. Grand'am, Grand'am, From the pan I am Flying . . . country gentlemen Took flying Psyche for a hen And aimed at her; then turned a gun On harmless chicken-me -- for fun. The beggars' dogs howl all together, Their tails turn to a ragged feather; Pools, like mirrors hung in garrets, Show each face as red as a parrot's, Whistling hair that raises ire In cocks and hens in the kitchen fire! Every flame shrieks cockle-doo-doo (With their cockscombs flaring high too); The witch's rag-rug takes its flight Beneath the willows' watery light: The wells of water seem a-plume -- The old witch sweeps them with her broom -- All are chasing chicken-me. . . . But Psyche -- where, oh where, is she? |