Ye two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,
If plumy or plumeless—without, or with wings,
Beware, lest ye break, in some hazardous hour,
Your vials of wrath, hot, or bitter, or sour!
And would ye but know how at times ye do seem
Transformed to bright furies, or frights in a dream,
Go, stand at the glass—to the painter go sit,
When anger is just at the height of its fit!