Make ends meet

stand you thus, and gaze with wondering eyes? What in the gloom thus moves

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