Page:The roamer and other poems (1920).djvu/45

Nor ever into any harbor come!
Shimmers the Sphere within the mind alone,
Hung on the breathing poles of thy dense life
Only revolves,—thyself, thou art the Lie!
Then live no more, but with the bullet league,
Thrust with the dagger, bruise the herb of death—
And perish; instant, at the very stroke,
The sparkle of the globe like dew exhales,
And vanishes; as, when the sun goes down,
Night in the twilight clouds the purple deep,
Ungirds the robing flame, and heaven is dark!
⁠More sad, more deep, with darker currents flowed
His moods in bitter channels; doctrines old
As is the heart, with ancient sorrow hoar,—
Of guilt once acted no remorse annuls,
No penance stays its injury to men,
And no forgiveness cleanses from the soul;
Incorporate with the world it works till doom;
Still memory points and names the brutal stroke,
Or self-inflicted, or another's wound;
And closer shuts the strong-knit frame of things—
The clearest vision so with error blurred,
The strongest will so palsied with defect,
That evil still must come, and woe to him

By whom it cometh, those on whom it falls!