220
RHYMES AND RHYTHMS
But the kind Grave
Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm,
In that black bridewell working out his term,
Hanker and grope and crave?
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 me
In the implacable night!'
That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be,
Think of it, here and thus made over to me
In the implacable night!'
And writhing, fain
And like a triumphing lover, he shall take
His fill where no high memory lives to make
His obscene victory vain.
And like a triumphing lover, he shall take
His fill where no high memory lives to make
His obscene victory vain.
