Like the nightmare in one's sleep.

    But he drank of the wine, and Sindbad cast

    The evil weight from his back at last.

    But the demon that cometh day by day

    To my quiet room and fireside nook,

    Where the casement light falls dim and gray

    On faded painting and ancient book,

    Is a sorrier one than any whose names

    Are chronicled well by good King James.

    No bearer of burdens like Caliban,

    No runner of errands like Ariel,

    He comes in the shape of a fat old man,

    Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell;

    And whence he comes, or whither he goes,

    I know as I do of the wind which blows.

    A stout old man with a greasy hat

    Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose,

    And two gray eyes enveloped in fat,

    Looking through glasses with iron bows.

    Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can,

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