Sonnet.
Shall the hag Evil die with child Good,1
Or propagate again her loathéd kind,2
Thronging the cells of the diseaséd mind,3
Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered
broad,4
broad,4
Though hourly pastured on the salient blood ?5
Oh ! that the wind which bloweth cold or
heat6
heat6
Would shatter and o’erbear the brazen beat7
Of their broad vans, and in the solitude8
Of middle space confound them, and blow
back9
back9
Their wild cries down their cavern-throats, and slake10
With points of blast-borne hair their heated
eyne !11
eyne !11
So their wan limbs no more might come
between12
between12
The moon and the moon’s reflex in the night,13
Nor blot with floating shades the solar light.14