The first, a woman, nobly limbed and fair, <br />Standeth at sunset by a famed far sea. <br />Red are her lips as Love's own kisses were, <br />Yet speak they never though they smile on me. <br />An old knight, next, and arméd cap--à--pie, <br />Watcheth the slaughtered clay that was his heir. <br />The winding--sheet is not more white than he, <br />Hath sat since dawn and hath not shed a tear. <br />The third a tortured bull about to die <br />In the arena. No proud infidel <br />E'er laid his dripping spears more scornfully <br />In Spanish dust; for he too, ere he fell, <br />Hath slain a man. Ah Christ! That murderous eye <br />Burneth athirst like the red pit of Hell.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/three-pictures-continued/
