They seem to do nothing but quarrel and fight,
And wrangle and jangle, and plunder.
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Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe?
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and jibe:
Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe;
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
Arch-mocker and mad abbot of misrule!
HEX: #22202E
RGB: 34 32 46
RGB: 34 32 46
HEX: #552A52
RGB: 85 42 82
RGB: 85 42 82
HEX: #DAB765
RGB: 218 183 101
RGB: 218 183 101
HEX: #C6765D
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RGB: 198 118 93
HEX: #E7DCAD
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RGB: 231 220 173
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
