And then consider camels: only think Of camels long enough, and you'ld go mad-- With all their humps and lumps; their knobbly knees, Splay feet, and straddle legs; their sagging necks, Flat flanks, and scraggy tails, and monstrous teeth. I've not forgotten the first fiend I met: 'Twas in a lane in Smyrna, just a ditch Between the shuttered houses, and so narrow The brute's bulk blocked the road; the huge green stack Of dewy fodder that it slouched beneath Brushing the yellow walls on either hand, And shutting out the strip of burning blue: And I'd to face that vicious bobbing head With evil eyes, slack lips, and nightmare teeth, And duck beneath the snaky, squirming neck, Pranked with its silly string of bright blue beads, That seemed to wriggle every way at once, As though it were a hydra. Allah's beard! But I was scared, and nearly turned and ran: I felt that muzzle take me by the scruff, And heard those murderous teeth crunching my spine, Before I stooped--though I dodged safely under. I've always been afraid of ugliness. I'm such a toad myself, I hate all toads; And the camel is the ugliest toad of all, To my mind; and it's just my devil's luck I've come to this--to be a camel's lackey, To fetch and carry for original sin, For sure enough, the camel's old evil incarnate. Blue beads and amulets to ward off evil! No eye's more evil than a camel's eye. The elephant is quite a comely brute, Compared with Satan camel,--trunk and all, His floppy ears, and his inconsequent tail. He's stolid, but at least a gentleman. It doesn't hurt my pride to valet him, And bring his shaving-water. He's a lord. Only the bluest blood that has come down Through generations from the mastodon Could carry off that tail with dignity, That tail and trunk. He cannot look absurd, For all the monkey tricks you put him through, Your paper hoops and popguns. He just makes His masters look ridiculous, when his pomp's Butchered to make a bumpkin's holiday. He's dignity itself, and proper pride, That stands serenely in a circus-world Of mountebanks and monkeys. He has weight Behind him: æons of primeval power Have shaped that pillared bulk; and he stands sure, Solid, substantial on the world's foundations. And he has form, form that's too big a thing To be called beauty. Once, long since, I thought To be a poet, and shape words, and mould A poem like an elephant, huge, sublime, To front oblivion; and because I failed, And all my rhymes were gawky, shambling camels, Or else obscene, blue-buttocked apes, I'm doomed To lackey it for things such as I've made, Till one of them crunches my backbone with his teeth, Or knocks my wind out with a forthright kick Clean in the midriff, crumpling up in death The hunched and stunted body that was me-- John, the apostle of the Perfect Form! Jerusalem! I'm talking like a book--