Autumn 1949 • Vol. XI No. 4 Poetry |

The King of the Grove

I. From his first victory, he had always known The fatal challenger, some time, would break Out of the chestnut grove that overhung The melancholy and sequestered lake With naked sword, aggressive, strong and young. He knew. He had, himself, been such a one. II. He could foresee that duel, which would be The end of all that daytime prowling, all That broken sleep when leaf or branch would stir At dead of night. The priest, the murderer, Sword in his throat, a murdered priest, would fall. Such was the rule. He faced it willingly III. And facing it, faced many, whom he slew At noon, or dusk, or in the dark. The sly, The bold, the fierce, the cunning, fell, their blood On sand or fallen leaves. He watched them die, Taken in rush, in ruse. So far, so good. But his own time was coming. This he knew. IV. Holding no barren argument with pride, He knew his arm, his eye, his craft, his will Were failing, that a hundred other men Could equal or surpass his power to kill, Could

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Bombay

By Josephine Miles

I. From his first victory, he had always known The fatal challenger, some time, would break Out of the chestnut grove that overhung The melancholy and sequestered lake With naked […]

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