Plod homeward, peasant, north-bound from
Italy With head full of slow wonder, pondering
On frescoes at Venice and all the odd adventures—
The bear in the way, the painter at Padua
In a great plumed hat, full of queer notions,
Ships in the harbour at Naples with a new rigging—
Strangeness enough to empty many tankards.
Plod homeward, Breughel, Painter of Antwerp.
At the top of the Alps he paused perhaps, looked backwards,
Rejecting the fanciful, and took for a painting
Ploughman, fisherman, and moon-faced shepherd,
The furrow cut cleanly, the sheep contented;
Put thumb to nose with neither pride nor envy
At soaring wings—a Southerner's invention—
Icarus sprawling, two feet out of the sea.