Dad looked over my shoulder. "Great," he said. "But
Yon black hound See'st thou, through corn and stubble scampering round?
I've mark'd him long, naught strange in him I see!
Note him! What takest thou the brute to be?
But for a poodle, whom his instinct serves His master's track to find once
Dost mark how round us, with wide spiral curves, He wheels, each circle
closer than before? And, if I err not, he appears to me A line of fire upon his
Naught but a poodle black of hue I see; 'Tis some illusion doth your sight
Methinks a magic coil our feet around, He for a future snare doth lightly