PAST the cold gates, a wraith without a name,
Sullen and withered, like a thing half-tame
Still for its jungle moaning, came by night,
Before the Judgment’s awful Angel came.
‘Answer, Immortal! at my high decree
Glory or shame shall flood thee as the sea:
What of the power, the skill, the graciousness,
The star-strong soul the Lord hath lent to thee?’
But the lone spectre raised a mournful hand:
‘Call me not that! Release me from this land!
What words are Heaven and Hell? They fall on me
As on a sphere the fooled and slipping sand.
‘Discerning, thou the good mayst yet belie,
By some last test, the sinner sanctify.
My guilt is neutral-safe, like innocence:
No boon nor bane of deathless days gain I,
‘Whose life is hollow shell and broken bowl,
Of all which was its treasury, the whole
Utterly, vilely squandered. O most Just!
Put down thy scales: for I have spent my soul.’