Coy knows pseudonoise codes.
Three grey geese
In a green field grazing,
Grey were the geese
And green was the grazing.
Sheila’s Shetland pony shied,
Shooting Sheila on the shore.
Shaking Sheila, stupefied,
Struggled homeward stiff and sore.
Pretty Polly Perkin polished pastel plates
and plaster plaques.
To his left the ground sloped downward through a narrowing perspective
of house-fronts and roof cornices to faint white mist, in which one
could see some cattle moving vaguely, and beyond which, if one knew
that it was there, one might just discern a wide space of common land
stretching away boldly until the dark barrier of woods stopped it
short. To his right the ground lay level, with the road enlarging
itself to a dusty bay in front of the Roebuck Inn, turning by the
churchyard wall, forking between two gardened houses of gentlefolk,
and losing itself suddenly in the same white mist that closed the
other vista. Over the veiling whiteness, over the red roofs, and high
above the church tower, the sky of a glorious July morning rose
unstained to measureless arches of blue.