Some cut us with their sharp and chiselled beauty:
Colder than leopard's eyes the are
Where all the freezing stars go round.
Black wind runs trofting to the dark,
Striking cold hoofs on the cold ground.
And lo! We have come round to the ballad. We cannot, and do not wish to, escape. Mr. Benet may brood over the sonnet (there are 16 in the book), but it will only flicker; it will not shine. For the sonnet's Procrustean tyranny will brook no revolt: the breather of cadences is either stretched or beheaded--both equally painful:
And steadfast muscles draw my sonnet up
To the firm iron of the fourteenth line. An you please, Mr. Benet, no more of this. "Heavens and Earth!" "And shall I couple hell?" Sing us a thousand ballads! Drink,
drink the ale of Tartary
And eat the spice of Trebizond!