There's a
So grinding, so immitigably sad,
Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad.…Do you not know it yet?
For deeds
Rnakle and snarl and hunger for their due,
Till there seems naught so despicable as
In all the grin o' the sun.
Like an old
The sea spurns and the land abhors, you
About the beach of Time, till by and
Death, that derides you too —Death, as he
His ragman's round, espies you, where you stray,
With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his
And then — and then, who
But the kind
Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm,
In that black bridewell working out his term,
Hanker and grope and crave?"Poor fool that might —That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be,
Think of it, here and thus made over to
In the implacable night!"And writhing,
And like a triumphing lover, he shall take,
His fill where no high memory lives to
His obscene victory vain.
