What manner of life is this, that darkens her veil over your eyes? What would make her bend and sweat even a drop of blood onto your tongue? A spirit which burns so bright, yet dormant and buried lies; The sun will blacken; a howling pack; no prayers for the young.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!