A WRANGDILLION

Dexery-tethery! down in the dike,

Under the ooze and the slime,

Nestles the wraith of a reticent Gryke,

Blubbering bubbles of rhyme:

Though the reeds touch him and tickle his teeth —

Though the Graigroll and the Cheest

Pluck at the leaves of his laureate-wreath,

Nothing affects him the least.

He sinks to the dregs in the dead o’ the night,

And he shuffles the shadows about

As he gathers the stars in a nest of delight

And sets there and hatches them out:

The Zhederrill peers from his watery mine

In scorn with the Will-o’ - the-wisp,

As he twinkles his eyes in a whisper of shine

That ends in a luminous lisp.

The Morning is born like a baby of gold,

And it lies in a spasm of pink,

And rallies the Cheest for the horrible cold

He has dragged to the willowy brink,

The Gryke blots his tears with a scrap of his grief,

And growls at the wary Graigroll

As he twunkers a tune on a Tiljicum leaf

And hums like a telegraph pole.