Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, -- <br />Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose. <br />A miser was he, with a miser's nose, <br />And eyes like little dollars in the dark. <br />His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark; <br />And when he spoke there came like sullen blows <br />Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close, <br />As if a cur were chary of its bark. <br /> <br />Glad for the murmur of his hard renown, <br />Year after year he shambled through the town, -- <br />A loveless exile moving with a staff; <br />And oftentimes there crept into his ears <br />A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, -- <br />And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aaron-stark/
