Wind the window down
      why should this deceive
something on the plain
      flashes a fiery streak

Madame, you mistake
      the luggage is all up
we'd best tell our
      post-boys to go on

We only wish to avoid
      a small hill
we'll soon get into
      the right road

How far are we now—
      half a league
from what's underlined
      on the finger-post

A canter that's a gallop
      in spite of my shouts
flung from one side
      to the other

Into the court-yard
      laconic answers
to the hotel steps
      (or the House)

I'm a bungler at a long story
      for cautious purity
I'd rather set the lapse
      in one town

Ought not, I feel, to pass
      over in silence
how a footman dissolves
      in a gentleman's jug