Eliza Pym, adding her own quaint touch
Of comedy, saw that pencil shine again
In Huxley’s hand; compared it, at a glance
Of fawn-like eyes, with the portentous form
In gaiters; felt the whole world growing strange;
Drew one hysterical breath, and swooned away.
V
The Vera Causa
And yet, and yet, the victor knew too well
His victory had a relish of the dust.