 | War-lyrics and other poems |  |
170
RAPPORT.
Strange recognition, or of friend or foe,
Methinks, dumb Nature hath.
This morn, as on an errand I did go,
Pregnant of wrong and wrath—
Sliding askant, their venomous lids arow,
Three serpents crossed my path.
Methinks, dumb Nature hath.
This morn, as on an errand I did go,
Pregnant of wrong and wrath—
Sliding askant, their venomous lids arow,
Three serpents crossed my path.
May lower Malice scent out, in the vast,
Some Sin, her foster-child?
(How the bead-eyes leered on me as they passed!)
A shudder—then I smiled;
Ha, dost thou wink me? Sathanas, avast!
I will be strong, but mild.
Some Sin, her foster-child?
(How the bead-eyes leered on me as they passed!)
A shudder—then I smiled;
Ha, dost thou wink me? Sathanas, avast!
I will be strong, but mild.
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