Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.
She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her
down.
‘Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.’
‘Kind words are more than coronets,’
She said, and wondering looked at me:
‘It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.’