Every Sunday they left a circus of dust behind them, 
as they poured out on the turnpike in stately, overcowded 
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.