The Flight Of The Immortals
E. J. Pratt
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.
Next 10 Poems
- E. J. Pratt : The Fog
- E. J. Pratt : The Ground Swell
- E. J. Pratt : The Ice-floes
- E. J. Pratt : The Midnight Revels As Observed By The Shades
- E. J. Pratt : The Return Of The Cat
- E. J. Pratt : The Sea-cat
- E. J. Pratt : The Shark
- E. J. Pratt : The Supreme Test
- E. J. Pratt : The Toll Of The Bells
- E. J. Pratt : The Witches' Brew
Previous 10 Poems
- E. J. Pratt : The Drowning
- E. J. Pratt : The Charge Of The Swordfish
- E. J. Pratt : The Big Fellow
- E. J. Pratt : Sea-gulls
- E. J. Pratt : Overheard By A Stream
- E. J. Pratt : Other Ingredients
- E. J. Pratt : Newfoundland
- E. J. Pratt : Inventory Of Hades
- E. J. Pratt : Defensive Measures
- E. J. Pratt : Come Not The Seasons Here
