A Wrangdillion

Dexery-tethery! down in the dike,         Under the ooze and the slime,     Nestles the wraith of a reticent Gryke,         Blubbering bubbles of rhyme:     Though the reeds touch him and tickle his teeth -         Though the Graigroll and the Cheest     Pluck at the leaves of his laureate-wreath,         Nothing affects him the least.     He sinks to the dregs in the dead o' the night,         And he shuffles the shadows about     As he gathers the stars in a nest of delight         And sets there and hatches them out:     The Zhederrill peers from his watery mine         In scorn with the Will-o'-the-wisp,     As he twinkles his eyes in a whisper of shine         That ends in a luminous lisp.     The Morning is born like a baby of gold,         And it lies in a spasm of pink,     And rallies the Cheest for the horrible cold         He has dragged to the willowy brink,     The Gryke blots his tears with a scrap of his grief,         And growls at the wary Graigroll     As he twunkers a tune on a Tiljicum leaf         And hums like a telegraph pole.