 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
375
THE SLEEPING LION
A Bull, the angel of the wild,A Bull as gentle as a child,
A pleasant mannered Bull that lay
Upon a hill at break of day
And munched his cud, observed a gleam
Of crimson on the world's extreme
Where the Dawn-Spirit had released
His flaring banner in the east.
The Bull, a flame in either eye
That frightened the offending sky,
Rose, pawed the earth until his skin
Was dun with dust from tail to chin,
And lowering his horrid brows,
Roared out: “How dare you thus arouse
The sleeping lion in my breast!”
Then, like a storm from out the west,
He blindly charged, and without check,
Went o'er a cliff and broke his neck!
A Tiger, calm, serene, sedate,
Administered on his estate,
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Remarked with a contented smile:
“That sleeping lion in his breast
Was just an ass that needed rest.”
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |