Page:The roamer and other poems (1920).djvu/81

That India tombs within her marble hills,
Or snowy Thibet in her caverns hides;
And whatsoever else on earth's scarred face,
On Lapland steppes, or Australasian isles,
Glares round the holocaust of mortal sin,
In horrid congregation gathered there.
O brutish souls! O sensual, brainless things!
O foul imagination and worse acts,
What night shall prison, what deep pit contain,
What justice equal that unrighteousness!
And, gazing there, the Roamer bowed in shame,
And sorrow's rush was as a throttling stream
Dragging him downward till it ebbed away
As if divine compulsion bade it die;
Once more the foul field of the lust of hell
Burnt on his eyes; but he was strong within;
And turning then to Reginald's bitter smile—
"My path lies here," he said; "God's peace be thine!"
"Thou wilt not try," cried Reginald, with swift speech;
"Here is no passage save for souls accursed,
Blind to the light of every glorious good;"
And wondering stopped, and fixed on him his gaze;
"Spirit of God!" he whispered, "what art thou,

That through thy mortal dark the soul doth shine