CYCLOPEAN

A mountainous and mystic brute

No rein can curb, no arrow shoot,

Upon whose domed deformed back

I sweep the planets scorching track.

Old is the elf, and wise, men say,

His hair grows green as ours grows grey;

He mocks the stars with myriad hands.

High as that swinging forest stands.

But though in pigmy wanderings dull

I scour the deserts of his skull,

I never find the face, eyes, teeth.

Lowering or laughing underneath.

I met my foe in an empty dell,

His face in the sun was naked hell.

I thought,‘ One silent, bloody blow.

No priest would curse, no crowd would know.’

Then cowered: a daisy, half concealed,

Watched for the fame of that poor field;

And in that flower and suddenly

Earth opened its one eye on me.