Adam, a brown old vulture in the rain,
Shivered below his wind-whipped olive-trees;
Huddling sharp chin on scarred and scraggy knees,
He moaned and mumbled to his darkening brain;
He was the grandest of them all was Cain!
A lion laired in the hills, that none could tire:
Swift as a stag: a stallion of the plain,
Hungry and fierce with deeds of huge desire.
Grimly he thought of Abel, soft and fair
A lover with disaster in his face,
And scarlet blossom twisted in bright hair.
Afraid to fight; was murder more disgrace?
God always hated Cain He bowed his head
The gaunt wild man whose lovely sons were dead.
