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AN INQUEST
Or all this plated gossamer
Of wings that wont to whirr and whirr,
You burly hoplite, what went wrong
In a panoply so strong?
Your golden collar is in place,
These great eyes visor yet your face,
Your broad sash is not push’d awry.
Bumble! How did you come to die?
Ah! what’s this lolling from your lips,
This bronzéd shaft with two fine tips?
Bumble! and does the wind sing true?
He sings a shocking tale of you!
Of willow-wine, and helpless drouth,
And one poor greedy tippling mouth!
And, then, this tell-tale tongue! what needs
More witness? Plain, I fear, that pleads
“Guilty!”
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