Page:The writings in prose and verse of Rudyard Kipling (IA cu31924057346631).pdf/37



what is this I make! Are these his limbs, Bent inward, tottering 'neath the body's weight? The body crutched by hairy spider-arms, Surmounted by a face as who should say, Why has thou made me? wherefore hast thou breathed Spirit in this foul body? Let me be! The piteous visage puckers with its woe, The strange black lips are working with a cry&mdash; A cry and protest. Lo! the wrinkled palms Are stretched forth helplessly and beat the dark. So did not my great foe when he was made. I saw his eye glow with the sense of power, I saw all wild things crouch beneath that eye; 17