His soul a glacial lake of deep humility,
The third will sacrifice his only mite of bread
When roadside witches beg, for he’s agreeable
And no encounter mars his cool tranquility
Or makes him lose all faith and wish that he were dead—
Not talking wolf or other unforeseeable
And fabulous inhabitant of fairy tales,
For he’s immune to dragon-slayer’s dread
And creep of flesh men find so disagreeable:
He’ll rule because he trusts the way, and never quails
From all that’s seeable.
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