In the day our spent heat
Might stick to me
And exhaust us like infantry
Of high summits 
And of valley air despaired

Then the fire where repair
The hilt and helm
Where drudgery to parody foretells
Mad Charles’s buggy retinue
About the rim of raillery

I come in Day-done vanity
To the tip
And look with sole proprietorship 
Down the dark-dumb climb
Behind the men encamped

Where grass-lover’s like to tramp
I hear (or so I’m told)
Their bellows low
The porcupines, like frigate group
The tenters menace with their ancient rub

No spear nor club
Do check their wend
Cloaked as caps of highwaymen
That with their move take grin and graft
As payment for the noon re-draft.