His eyes are little rutilant stones

Sunk in black basalt; scale by scale

Men count the wealth of silver mail

That laps his flesh and iron bones.

And from his navel, deep and wide

As an old Cyclops’ drinking-bowl,

Spring those stout nerves of twisted hide

That are his life and strength and soul.

Basking his belly, fast asleep

He sprawls on the warm shingle bank;

And the bold Ethiops come and creep

Along his polished heaving flank,

And in his navel brew their wine

And drink vast strength and grow divine.