VII.

A little, low, iron-bound door, and "Not in vain This time," I would whisper, "my pain!" Then I'd fling the door back quick with a cheery call . . . Silence, nothing at all! Now is it not wholly plain That here was something of wizardry, mystical, magical?

VI.

I hate the clock;
It first says Tick,
It then says Tock;
I hear days flick,
I see years flock,
The whole world rock;
Had I the trick
I'd like to lock
Time with a block
To make it stick.

Hic, haec, and hoc,
Hoc, haec, and hic,
Each, at each knock
Drop likes a brick,
Sticks like a stock
Just at the shock
Caught in the nick;
Therefore the mock
Of that red cock
Turned Peter sick.

My house upon the landward side
Looks out toward the town;
Pleasant it is all day to bide
High in the thin air rarified,
And gaze delighted down
On busy folk that drive and ride
And run and crawl and hop and stride
Like beetles black and brown.

Stiff soldiers stalk, kings pace in pride,
And statesmen stoop and frown,
The women strut and mince and glide,
Priests bustle round at Eastertide, . . .
All but their boots their broad hats hide,
The wind blows out their gown, . . .
Tramps slouch and spit, boys jump and slide,
They look all head. How I deride
King, lady, priest and clown!

VIII.

My house is haunted and hell-enchanted by a conjuror vaunted . . . hear them tripping, Chattering, scattering, imps undaunted, here they come battering, pattering, skipping, Dancing and prancing, gloating and glancing, bawling, brawling, leering, and lipping, Snarling and nipping Clinging and gripping Winding and whirling, twisting and twirling, sliding and sprawling askew and slipping . . .