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what's o'clock
That jarred across his draughty, shrivelled brain.
One day as he was groping in the dusk,
The dusty dusk through which the light-streak clove
And showed it such for some few broomstick lengths,
His startled fingers closed about a foot,
Two feet, in fact, a pair of human feet,
Palpable to his touch, but cold as snow.
Old Neron cringed from them and hid his eyes.
For might he not be gong mad? Yes, mad!
That last cold horror haunting vacant age?
His toothless jaws chattered and slabbered now
For one pale moment, then he looked and saw
Two wooden statues in the golden dusk:
A king with orb and sceptre, and a beard
As black as ink, beside him was his queen,
And both were crowned. The beard held Neron's eyes.
Waist-long and vast, its heaviness of hair
Stamped the king's sullen masculinity
The dusty dusk through which the light-streak clove
And showed it such for some few broomstick lengths,
His startled fingers closed about a foot,
Two feet, in fact, a pair of human feet,
Palpable to his touch, but cold as snow.
Old Neron cringed from them and hid his eyes.
For might he not be gong mad? Yes, mad!
That last cold horror haunting vacant age?
His toothless jaws chattered and slabbered now
For one pale moment, then he looked and saw
Two wooden statues in the golden dusk:
A king with orb and sceptre, and a beard
As black as ink, beside him was his queen,
And both were crowned. The beard held Neron's eyes.
Waist-long and vast, its heaviness of hair
Stamped the king's sullen masculinity
