The poet painted a woman's soul, Human, trusting and kind, And then he drew the soul of a man,
I. Eagle-heart, child-heart, bonnie lad o' dreams, Far away thy soul hears passion-throated Art
The Sky Line. Like black fangs in a cruel ogre's jaw The grim piles lift against the sunset sky;
It wouldn't be fair to Belshazzar When speaking of madness and mirth, To draw from his revel a moral
(Oscar Wilde.) I gazed upon thee desolate and heard Thine anguished cry when fell the iron gin