Like one that, poising, rises to the throw.
There was the horseman, fair-hair’d Danaë’s son,
Perseus: nor yet the buckler with his feet
Touch’d, nor yet distant hover’d: strange to think:
For nowhere on the surface of the shield
He rested: so the crippled artist-god
Illustrious framed him with his hands in gold.
Bound to his feet were sandals wing’d: a sword
Of brass with hilt of sable ebony
Hung round him from the shoulders by a thong: