Classic Poem

‘God Pluto is a kindly man; the children ran:
“Come help us with the games our dames ban.”
He drinks his beer and builds his forge; as red as George
The Fourth his face is that the flames tan.
Like baskets of ripe fruit the bird-songs' oaten flutes
All honeyed yellow sound in air, where
Among the hairy leaves fall trills of dew and sheaves
Are tasting of fresh green anew. Flare
His flames as tall
As Windsor Castle, all
Balmoral was not higher;
Like feathered masks and peas in pots and castled trees
Walled gardens of the seas, the flames seemed all of these.
As red and green as
Petticoats of queans
Among the flowering
Beans they
Bloom. . . . “Come rest and be!
I care for nobody, not I, the world can be and no one cares for me!”
In the lane, Hattie
Meddlesome Mattie,
Suddenly quarrel.
Flames like Balmoral
From feathered doxies
Blow up like boxes,
Cram full of matches—
Each yells and scratches.
Flames green and yellow spirt from lips and eyes and skirt,
The leaves like chestnut horses' ears rear.
Ladies, though my forge has made me red as George
The Fourth, such flames we know not here, dear!’