Classic Poem

 Scarce had the thirsty sunbeams drank the dew,
  Save where it lay beneath some leafy screen,
 When, to consult the conjuror, Ballou ,
  Our hero issuing on his way was seen,
 With bold determination in his mien.
  He with his shadow seemed to run a race;
 (And what a shadow was the goal, I ween!)
  Hope lit the rigid features of his face,
And oft his gesturing arm bespoke the mental chase.