Classic Poem

His white lips set
Fast with a formidable will, while yet
Storax, who turn'd and turn'd it slowly, scann'd
The reddening steel, Irene's rapid hand,
With restless finger o'er her pucker'd brow
Flitting, made airy crosses in a row.
Her eyes had settled sullenly upon
The superimpending image of God's Son:
And Habit, — that hard mock-bird of the mind,
Whose tongue, to chance-got utterance confined,
Memories by chance recaptured out of place
Set talking out of season, — to the Face
Mechanic response making, " If thine eye
Offend thee, pluck it out , " she mutter'd. " Ay,
That is sound Gospel, " Storax in her ear
Whisper'd. " The thing is white-hot now ... See here! "
" And I am Empress " ... hiss'd Irene ... " Smite! "