The painter calls up his colors, then
Sets out his brushes
Draws a child in a goose-cart
Woven from the rushes.
Sets out his brushes
Draws a child in a goose-cart
Woven from the rushes.
The gander-pair is strong,
They stretch their necks and pull
The little girl squeals
As the cart begins to roll
Straight into the fountain
Midst the public square
Her frock would soon be soaked,
Soaked the gold-curled hair
Luncheoners and amblers
Nannies with their charges
Name the child changelinged
As inward the goose-cart marches
A few point and stare
One laughs with shock
Most turn away;
The painter wrings his smock.
Chosen by the faerie art
That’s the bright girl’s fate
Common men can’t interfere;
Any case, it’s too late.
The painter puts up his colors
Shuts away all his brushes
He’s drawn a child in a goose-cart
Woven from the rushes.
J. ALEKSANDR WOOTTON 