FOWL of the nightmare visage, baldly white, Your evil orb fulfilled of all the sly Inherent devilries of days gone by, Ere from the main upswept the Spaniards' might, When your familiar sires would shriek delight, Perched where some cruel temple rose on high— I will not scratch that heathen head, not I, Moreover, I am certain that you bite! I wonder haply, long, long years ago If once you lived, a painted Aztec priest, Ill-famed for many a fierce and hurtful deed, Who in your guise must watch the seasons flow, A captive, far from sacrificial feast, Cloyed with the unconvincing nut and seed! |