Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Emperors Glove

On St. Baron's tower, commanding        &nbsp Half of Flanders, his domain, Charles the Emperor once was standing, While beneath him on the landing        &nbsp Stood Duke Alva and his train. Like a print in books of fables,        &nbsp Or a model made for show, With its pointed roofs and gables, Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,        &nbsp Lay the city far below. Through its squares and streets and alleys        &nbsp Poured the populace of Ghent; As a routed army rallies, Or as rivers run through valleys,        &nbsp Hurrying to their homes they went "Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!"        &nbsp Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; "Haunt of traitors and deceivers, Stronghold of insurgent weavers,        &nbsp Let it to the ground be razed!" On the Emperor's cap the feather        &nbsp Nods, as laughing he replies: "How many skins of Spanish leather, Think you, would, if stitched together        &nbsp Make a glove of such a size?"