Author Richard Henry Dana The sun beats hot upon his head. He stands beneath the broad, fierce blaze, As stiff and cold as one that's dead: A troubled, dreamy mazeOf some unearthly horrour, all he knows,—Of some wild horrour past, and coming woes. Tags Short Poems Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments