The splendid demon with the lurid eyes,
Wherein, as when a serpent bites its coil
Nearing its death—hate having felt its foil,
Turns back upon itself before it dies.
He sits; one massive evil, huge of limb,
With hand still clench'd as with the wish to slay;
While those dark brows for ever waste away
With their own anger as they glare at Him.
That beauty which repels nor draws us nigher
Clothes him as with a raiment. We draw near,
Drawn, yet held back as by instinctive fear—
As if a tongue from that dread crown of fire
Could leap to meet us, like a stroke from fate,
And blast us with the poison of its hate.