Flounced back from bliss she was not born And in her old bounds buried her despair, 'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. 45 Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again, Well, as the chance were, this might take or else Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, By moonlight; and the pie with the long And give the manikin three legs for his one, tongue He hath watched hunt with that slant whitewedge eye 90 50 Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg, |