As though he’d ne’er set eyes on it before.
Stock-still I stood, mutely confused. He spoke
When he saw this—“The lamps here burn too dim!”
Then, stretching out his hand toward your letter,
Plunged it in flame and let it flicker slow
Before the picture like an uninked sheet.
Herod.
Bold, e’en for him: but ’twas a wine-caprice.
Joab.
I cried—“What’s that you’re doing? Why, you’ve not