Something Inspires The Only Cow Of Late To Make No More Of A Wall Than An Open Gate, And Think No More Of Wall-Builders Than Fools. Her Face Is Flecked With Pomace And She Drools A Cider Syrup. Having Tasted Fruit, She Scorns A Pasture Withering To The Root. She Runs From Tree To Tree Where Lie And Sweeten. The Windfalls Spiked With Stubble And Worm-Eaten. She Leaves Them Bitten When She Has To Fly. She Bellows On A Knoll Against The Sky. Her Udder Shrivels And The Milk Goes Dry.