On he goes, the little one,
Pediment of life.Setting off somewhere, apparently.Whither away, brisk egg?His mother deposited him on the soil as if he were no more than droppings,And now he scuffles tinily past her as if she were an old rusty tin.A mere obstacle,He veers round the slow great mound of her —Tortoises always foresee obstacles.It is no use my…