The orchard grew excellent,

Good mass of apples assembling, one angel burned, looped
On the wire fence, in a bowl of gold most satisfactory.

The animals were curiosities
To most, and this was years ago. Now we do tricks for

Them, anything, for even an ersatz miracle; science is a spectacle
You see. Little is known of the lives

Of the scholars; they are bent, it is known; they have little
Left to say. Prose from the turn