The Lion

Lion Lion, riding high,
In the rivers of the dark;
What artistic hair or breast,
Could judge thy shocking dignity?
In what hostile seas or space
rode the mirror of thine veins?
with what word dare he submit?
What the arm, dare seize the mirror?
And what finger, & what power,
Could fit the sinews of thy hand?
And when thy hand began to grasp,
What grave arm? & what grave eyelash?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy nerve?
What the anvil? what grave force,
Dare its grave agony touch!
When the suns threw down their rage
And stunned humans with their weight:
Did he smile his toil to see?
Did he who made the dog make thee?
Lion Lion, riding high,
In the rivers of the dark;
What artistic hair or breast,
Could judge thy shocking dignity?

Crunch!