Twas In A Tavern That With Old Age Stooped And Leaned Rheumatic Rafters O'Er His Head - A Blowzed, Prodigious Man, Which Talked, And Stared, And Rolled, As If With Purpose, A Small Eye Like A Sweet Cupid In A Cask Of Wine. I Could Not View His Fatness For His Soul, Which Peeped Like Harmless Lightnings And Was Gone; As Haps To Voyagers Of The Summer Air. And When He Laughed, Time Trickled Down Those Beams, As In A Glass; And When In Self-Defence He Puffed That Paunch, And Wagged That Huge, Greek Head, Nosed Like A Punchinello, Then It Seemed An Hundred Widows Swept In His Small Voice, Now Tenor, And Now Bass Of Drummy War. He Smiled, Compact Of Loam, This Orchard Man; Mused Like A Midnight, Webbed With Moonbeam Snares Of Flitting Love; Woke - And A King He Stood, Whom All The World Hath In Sheer Jest Refused For Helpless Laughter'S Sake. And Then, Forfend! Bacchus And Jove Reared Vast Olympus There; And Pan Leaned Leering From Promethean Eyes. "Lord!" Sighed His Aspect, Weeping O'Er The Jest, "What Simple Mouse Brought Such A Mountain Forth?"