On Leonardo's Head of Medusa

The livid and unutterable head,

Fresh cut, lies welt'ring in its mane of snakes;

A slowly writhing tangle which still takes

Its time to die, round temples that are dead;

While through the lips, wet as with froth of lead,

Like the last breath of horror which forsakes

Evil's cut throat, a poisonous vapour makes

Its way from Hell to Heaven, vague and dread.

Already blind, the dying vipers grope,

Writhing in vain to leave the head they loathe,

Now that it lies there, gory, dead and wan;

Each strangling each in coils of creeping rope,

Till death invades them from the brows they clothe,

And they coagulate. A toad looks on.