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LOST.
225
LOST.
HE word has come;—go forthAn outcast and a blot upon the earth;
Lo, the fierce angel, with his sword of flame,
And brow of bitter blame,
Stands at the portal, and commands thee,—hark!
"Go forth into the dark,
The blind and pitiless dark,
Perdita!"
Go forth into the storm,
Wrap the rough sackcloth round thy delicate form,
Since torn forever thence
Are the fair garments of thine innocence,
Which not by prayer, nor penance, nor much pain,
Can be made white again,
Perdita!
Wrap the rough sackcloth round thy delicate form,
Since torn forever thence
Are the fair garments of thine innocence,
Which not by prayer, nor penance, nor much pain,
Can be made white again,
Perdita!
Nay, it is vain to plead,—
There is no hand to help, no ear to heed,—
Not even his, whose art
Did win and cast aside thy credulous heart,—
There is no hand to help, no ear to heed,—
Not even his, whose art
Did win and cast aside thy credulous heart,—
