Three Pictures Continued

The first, a woman, nobly limbed and fair, Standeth at sunset by a famed far sea. Red are her lips as Love's own kisses were, Yet speak they never though they smile on me. An old knight, next, and arméd cap--à--pie, Watcheth the slaughtered clay that was his heir. The winding--sheet is not more white than he, Hath sat since dawn and hath not shed a tear. The third a tortured bull about to die In the arena. No proud infidel E'er laid his dripping spears more scornfully In Spanish dust; for he too, ere he fell, Hath slain a man. Ah Christ! That murderous eye Burneth athirst like the red pit of Hell.