Where the Demons Grin
The hill was low, but stretched away A straggling mile or so to where The sea was stamping, tossing spray Beyond its bulwarks black and bare : A sullen sea of gray.
Ah me, it was so desolate, And sadder for the sea-bird's cry Thrillingly thin. There seemed a weight Brooding, as if the leaden sky Hung heavier for hate.
The grasses jerked as they were stung By vicious winds. A daisy's head Crouched in a tuft till it was flung From its uneasy, troubled bed And tost the waves among.
A bent, old man was climbing slow With weary step and plodding pace That savage hill, and wild did blow A bitter wind in headlong race, Harsh from the sea below.
And all the woeful things he said — Ah me, the twitching of his lips — Of hungry children craving bread, And fortune's sideward slips, And how his wife was dead.
He held a rope, and as he trod, Pressing against the furious wind, He muttered low and sneered at God, And said He sure was deaf or blind, Or lazing on the sod.
And what was done I will not tell — There is a bent tree on the top Of that low hill, there you can see The sequel of this mystery . . . Beneath the moon ... I dared not stop My God — a demon up from hell Jab-jabbered as the old man fell.