Children of the Night

Aaron Stark

     Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, —
     Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose.
     A miser was he, with a miser's nose,
     And eyes like little dollars in the dark.
     His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark;
     And when he spoke there came like sullen blows
     Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close,
     As if a cur were chary of its bark.

     Glad for the murmur of his hard renown,
     Year after year he shambled through the town, —
     A loveless exile moving with a staff;
     And oftentimes there crept into his ears
     A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, —
     And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.