BEHEMOTH.
His eyes are little rutilant stones
Sunk in black basalt; scale by scale
Men count the wealth of silver mail
That laps his flesh and iron bones.
And from his navel, deep and wide
As an old Cyclops’ drinking-bowl,
Spring those stout nerves of twisted hide
That are his life and strength and soul.
Basking his belly, fast asleep
He sprawls on the warm shingle bank;
And the bold Ethiops come and creep
Along his polished heaving flank,
And in his navel brew their wine
And drink vast strength and grow divine.
