I caught, for a second, across the crowd -- Just for a second, and barely that -- A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed, Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat -- With small gray eyes, of a look as keen As the long, sharp nose that grew between.
And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own, Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear, On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown Hither and thither and everywhere -- With its keen little sinister eyes of gray, And nose like the beak of a bird of prey!
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