Aaron Stark

Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, —

Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose.

A miser was he, with a miser's nose,

And eyes like little dollars in the dark.

His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark;

And when he spoke there came like sullen blows

Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close,

As if a cur were chary of its bark.

Glad for the murmur of his hard renown,

Year after year he shambled through the town, —

A loveless exile moving with a staff;

And oftentimes there crept into his ears

A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, —

And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.