The White Rabbit 
  

He is white as Helvellyn when winter is well in; 
His whiskers are mobile and tender. 
If it weren’t for the greed that compels him to feed 
Without ceasing, his form would be slender. 

With elegant hops he crushes or crops 
All the flowers that bloom in the garden; 
Yet such is the grace that suffuses his face, 
He wins, without asking, our pardon. 

The Sun, who rides heaven from Dover to Devon 
Inspecting furred folks and their habits, 
Breaks out into poesy: “What summer snow is he 
Made of, this pearl among rabbits ?” 

And at night on the lawn as he waits for the dawn, 
Rapt in drems of a rabbit’s perfection, 
The moon in her stride sweeps the cloudsets aside 
To rejoice in his silver reflection 


                                                                         
   E. V. Rieu