Make ends meet

Yon black hound See'st thou, through corn and stubble scampering round?

I've mark'd him long, naught strange in him I see!

Note him! What takest thou the brute to be?

But for a poodle, whom his instinct serves His master's track to find once

Dost mark how round us, with wide spiral curves, He wheels, each circle

closer than before? And, if I err not, he appears to me A line of fire upon his

Naught but a poodle black of hue I see; 'Tis some illusion doth your sight

Methinks a magic coil our feet around, He for a future snare doth lightly