Like the watch-tower of a town
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
One lugs a golden dish
They stood stock still upon the moss,
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
And heard her penny jingle
Like the watch-tower of a town
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
One lugs a golden dish
They stood stock still upon the moss,
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
And heard her penny jingle