ld cry that in this shrine lie hid
Stories that Satan from his mouth would spew;
Wild tales that men in hell tell hoarsely--speak!
Saint and Deliverer! Should I slander you?'
Slowly the cowering corse reared up its head,
'Nay, I am vile ... but when for all to see,
You stand there, pure and painless--death of life!
Let the stars fall--I say you slander me!
'You make me perfect, public, colourless;
You make my virtues sit at ease--you lie!
For mine were never easy--lost or saved,
I had a soul--I was. And where am I?
Where is my good? the little real hoard,
The secret tears, the sudden chivalries;
The tragic love, the futile triumph--where?
Thief, dog, and son of devils--where are these?
I will lift up my head: in leprous loves
Lost, and the soul's dishonourable scars--
By God I was a better man than This
That stands and slanders me to all the stars.
'Come down!' And with an awful cry, the corse
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