BEHEMOTH.
Reading edition
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.