340 Head that the hand

340

Of a god might have blest,

Laid lustrous and bland

On the curve of its crest:

Mouth sweeter than cherries,

Keen eyes as of Mars,

Browner than berries

And brighter than stars.

Nor colour nor wordy

Weak song can declare

The stature how sturdy,

How stalwart his air.

As a king in his bright

Presence-chamber may be,

So seems he in height—

Twice higher than your knee.

As a warrior sedate

With reserve of his power,

So seems he in state—

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