There was a Young Lady of Sweden,
Who went by the slow rain to Weedon;
When they cried, 'Weedon Station!'
She made no observation
But thought she should go back to Sweden.
by Amy LowellGushing from the mouths of stone men
To spread at ease under the sky
In granite-lipped basins,
Where iris dabble their feet
And rustle to a passing wind,