Cyclopean

A mountainous and mystic brute No rein can curb, no arrow shoot, Upon whose doomed deformed back I sweep the planets' scorching track. Old is the elf, and wise, men say, His hair grows green as ours grows grey; He mocks the stars with myriad hands, High as that swinging forest stands. But though in pigmy wanderings dull I scour the deserts of his skull, I never find the face, eyes, teeth, Lowering or laughing underneath. I met my foe in an empty dell, His face in the sun was naked hell. I thought, ‘One silent, bloody blow, No priest would curse, no crowd would know.' Then cowered: a daisy, half concealed, Watched for the fame of that poor field; And in that flower and suddenly Earth opened its one eye on me.