For cool streams yearning, herds of antelope
Haste where the brassy sky, banked black and high,
Hath clouded promise. "There will be"--they hope--
"Water beyond the tope!"
Sick with the glare, his hooded terrors failing,
His slow coils trailing o'er the fiery dust,
The cobra glides to nighest shade, and hides
His head beneath the peacock's train: he must
His ancient foeman trust!
The purple peafowl, wholly overmastered