A WINDY CORNER AT BRIGHTON

Old lady first, with hair like winter snows, Makes moan. And struggles. Then, with cheeks too richly rose, A crone, Gold hair, new teeth, white powder on her nose; All bone And skin; an "Ancient Mystery", like those Of Hone. Then comes a girl; sweet face that freshly glows! Well grown. The neat cloth gown her supple figure shows Now thrown In lines of beauty. Last, in graceless pose, Half prone, A luckless lout, caught by the blast, one knows His tone Means oaths; his hat, straight as fly crows, Has flown. I laugh at him, and—— Hi! By Jove, there goes My own!