Guest
When the lion bares his teeth, do not / fancy that the lion shows to you a smile. / I have slain the man that sought my heart’s blood many a time. / Riding a noble mare whose back none else may climb, / Whose hind and fore-legs seem in galloping as one / Nor hand nor foot requireth she to urge her on. / And O the days when I have swung my fine-edged glaive / Amidst a sea of death where wave was dashed on wave! / The desert knows me well, the night, the mounted men, / The battle and the sword, the paper and the pen
