Richard III

I see thy smile; at times, May’s warm, young sun,
At times, December’s cold and threat’ning sky;
Thy woman’s hand aplucking at thy sword,
The lightning lurking in thy deep-set eye.
Alone, thy face a stage whereon doth play
Ambition, Hate, Lust, Murder; flitting out
And in the gloomy wings of thy dark soul —
A fearsome and a most unholy rout!
And yet withal a kingly look oft-times
Conveys an air of high-born royalty
That overshadows all thine awful crimes
And stamps e’en them somewhat with majesty.
Liar, Traitor, Murd’rer through all thy life —
Hero and King at Bosworth’s fatal strife!


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