The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The understanding critic firstly sees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
And let you off from your opinions glum
The best of all things to an end must come