Westering forth from Beeny, now the sun,
Foreshadowing twilight gloom sinks in the sea.
‘I think,’ the whiting, says ‘it’s time for tea,’
And, being kind, he gives the snail a bun.
Faltering forwards, never more to glance
Upon her face, forever lost from view,
The puzzled whiting wonders what to do
And sighs, ‘Oh will you, won’t you, join the dance?’
As was her way in former days, she parts
Yet, seemingly, no more to reappear;
‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ the whiting cries, ‘I fear
That naughty snail has taken all the tarts.’
Then, veiled in dusk, before his startled eyes
He sees her shimmering spectre standing there.
So off they trot, this merry little pair,
To dine on toasted snark and treacle pies.
(Thomas Hardy/Lewis Carroll)
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