Processions That Lack High Stilts Have Nothing That Catches The Eye. What If My Great-Granddad Had A Pair That Were Twenty Foot High, And Mine Were But Fifteen Foot, No Modern Stalks Upon Higher, Some Rogue Of The World Stole Them To Patch Up A Fence Or A Fire. Because Piebald Ponies, Led Bears, Caged Lions, Ake But Poor Shows, Because Children Demand Daddy-Long-Legs Upon This Timber Toes, Because Women In The Upper Storeys Demand A Face At The Pane, That Patching Old Heels They May Shriek, I Take To Chisel And Plane. Malachi Stilt-Jack Am I, Whatever I Learned Has Run Wild, From Collar To Collar, From Stilt To Stilt, From Father To Child. All Metaphor, Malachi, Stilts And All. A Barnacle Goose Far Up In The Stretches Of Night; Night Splits And The Dawn Breaks Loose; I, Through The Terrible Novelty Of Light, Stalk On, Stalk On; Those Great Sea-Horses Bare Their Teeth And Laugh At The Dawn.