The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With gravity at gravity's great cog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb