Every Sunday they left a circus of dust behind them, 
as they poured out on the turnpike in stately, overcowded 
                                                                                           carriages,
and the showers found nobody at home, 
and trampled through the bedroom windows.

It was a custom at these staid Sunday dinners 
to serve courses of rain instead of roast-beef; 
on the baroque sideboard, by the Sunday silver, 
the wind cut corners like a boy on a new bicycle. 

Upstairs, the curtain-rods whirled, untouched; 
the curtains rose like a salvo to the ceiling. 
Outside the burghers kept losing themselves, 
they showed up chewing straws by cow-ponds.