To Mrs. de Paravicini.
I.
Each in his proper gloom;
Each in his dark, just place:
The builders of their doom
Hide, each his awful face.
Not less than saints, are they
Heirs of Eternity:
Perfect, their dreadful way;
A deathless company.
Lost! lost! fallen and lost!
With fierce wrath ever fresh:
Each suffers in the ghost
The sorrows of the flesh.
O miracle of sin!
That makes itself an home,
So utter black within,
Thither Light cannot come!
O mighty house of hate!
Stablished and guarded so,
Love cannot pass the gate,
Even to dull its woe!
Now, Christ compassionate!
Now, bruise me with thy rod:
Lest I be mine own fate,
And kill the Love of God.
1893.