A sound less sweet to mortal ear 

 Uprose (had one been there to hear).... 

 It was the tramp who snored. 

 

 

 The Black Dwarf. 

 Certain it is that of those qualities 

 We are enamoured which we most do lack. 

 So he, fantastic out of human guise, 

 Bent, broken, bowed, small, apish, humped of back, 

 Marred in the mint, perfection's contrary, 

 To sweet perfection found his marred life thrall, 

 And—the great artist without jealousy— 

 Knew beauty more than all. 

 Much he loved flowers and their frail loveliness, 

 But if they pined thro' blight or thirsty want, 

 Or spiteful wind had made his blossoms less, 

 Or mouse or mole had gnawed some tender plant, 

 Then seemed the edge of life all dull and blunt, 

 And passion thwarted tore his twisted frame, 

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