 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
188
MATTER.
In the deep clay of yonder sluggish floodThe huge behemoth makes his ancient lair,
And with slow caution heavily wallows there,
Moving above the stream, a mound of mud:
And near him, stretching to the river's edge
In dense dark grandeur, stands the silent wood,
Whose unpierced jungles, choked with rotten sedge,
Prison the damp air from the freshening breeze:
Lo! the rhinoceros comes down this way
Thundering furiously on,—and snorting sees
The harmless monster at his awkward play,
And rushes on him from the crashing trees,—
A dreadful shock: as when the Titans hurl'd
Against high Jove the Himalayan world!
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |