The black, however, without hardly deigning

A glance at that which wrapped the slaves in wonder,

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining,

As if the milky way their feet was under

With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining

A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder,

In that remote recess which you may see—

Or if you don't the fault is not in me,—