Lo! What is this that I make—sudden, supreme, unrehearsed— This that my clutch in the crowd pressed at a venture has raised? Forward and onward I sprang when I thought (as I ought) I reversed, And a cab like martagon opes and I sit in the wreckage dazed. And someone is taking my name, and the driver is rending the air With cries for my blood and my gold, and a snickering news-boy brings My cap, wheel-pashed from the kerb. I must run her home for repair, Where she leers with her bonnet awry—flat on the nether springs!