Aaron stark

Children of the Night (1897)

Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark,Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose.A miser was he, with a miser’s nose,And eyes like little dollars in the dark.His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark;And when he spoke there came like sullen blowsThrough scattered fangs a few snarled words and close,As if a cur were chary of its bark.

Glad for the murmur of his hard renown,Year after year he shambled through the town,A loveless exile moving with a staff;And oftentimes there crept into his earsA sound of alien pity, touched with tears,—And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.