Close to the dunnest hour of night,
Sniffing the odour of the brew,
Their bat-wings oiled for water flight,
The Devil and his legions flew,
Smashing the record from Hell's Gates
By plumbline to Magellan Straits.
Far in their wake, but hurrying fast
For fear the odour might not last
Till morning, came a spectral band
Weary from Hades-that dry land.
The Flight Of The Immortals
E. J. Pratt
(1)
Poem topics: fear, night, water, flight, fast, morning, devil, record, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
Submit Spanish Translation
Submit German Translation
Submit French Translation
Write your comment about The Flight Of The Immortals poem by E. J. Pratt
Best Poems of E. J. Pratt