Winter 1950 • Vol. XII No. 1 Poetry |

What Beast Is This

What beast is this, not bellowing, not stung With blood, that moves upon us to devour? For it is near—the never ending hour Of our own death, that all the saints have sung. But where is the great animal? Among What rushes does he build his ruinous bower? Why is he not louder? So much power, And hidden! All that fury, and no tongue! Be still. How do you know the beast is strange? Look in your neighbor's eyes. He may be there. Look in your own. Nothing so much can change As man. The very foulest was most fair In Eden. Then be still and let him range, That shadow monster met upon the stair.

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Let Me Listen

By Mark Van Doren

What beast is this, not bellowing, not stung With blood, that moves upon us to devour? For it is near—the never ending hour Of our own death, that all the […]

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