A Rough Sketch

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!