Behind his sharpened axle swords, His hard, lean lions run Into the desert where he drives -- Into the smoky sun. His are reins of leathery gold And girdle of hottest red, Helmet of carven silver weights Dull on his dusky head; And slaves are crouching in the court And concubines are sad . . . . The palms which fan the cooling pool Scatter the scent they had. Lions are yellow anger burned Into a loving heart; Spears of the keenest, biting steel Tear the fair flesh apart. Yet he has driven to the wars, Swift be his horses' feet! I pick a thousand buds to waste, Here on the marble seat. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 3 by CONRAD AIKEN THE WORLD AS WILL AND REPRESENTATION' by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE MOUNTAIN by HAYDEN CARRUTH MY BOY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON PENDULUM by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SEPULCHRE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE HARD TIMES IN ELFLAND; A STORY OF CHRISTMAS EVE by SIDNEY LANIER |