I’ll corner him and catch his coat And stuff him with the play I wrote; Or else (and here I’m far from jesting), When off beside my lake I climb— Beset with yearning and with rhyme— I scare a flock of ducks from resting; And hearing my sweet stanzas soar, They flap their wings and fly from shore. 36* And as I watch them disappearing, A hunter hidden in the brush Damns poetry for interfering And, whistling, fires with a rush. Each has his own preoccupation, His favourite sport or avocation: One aims a gun at ducks on high; One is entranced by rhyme as I; One swats at flies in mindless folly;
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