Fearful of what was not there to be found
Should he go there to see. They might be dark,
But folly that made them so had kept them so,
Like an indulgent slayer who binds a wound
That he has washed wtih a lethargic poison,
And waits at ease with his malignity
For stagnant fury to accumulate
A mortal sloth within—and in so far
As that was in a manner merciful,
Though now it seemed there was to be an end
Of even that mercy. After a grateful darkness,
There was to be the pain of seeing too clearly
More than a man so willing to see nothing
Should have to see.
Still motionless, he lay there
Laboring to persuade a lying hope
[ 47 ]
