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DESPAIR.
Come from the brute, poor souls—no souls—and to die with the brute———
VII.
Nay, but I am not claiming your pity: I know you of old—
Small pity for those that have ranged from the narrow warmth of your fold,
Where you bawl'd the dark side of your faith and a God of eternal rage,
Till you flung us back on ourselves, and the human heart, and the Age.
Nay, but I am not claiming your pity: I know you of old—
Small pity for those that have ranged from the narrow warmth of your fold,
Where you bawl'd the dark side of your faith and a God of eternal rage,
Till you flung us back on ourselves, and the human heart, and the Age.
VIII.
But pity—the Pagan held it a vice—was in her and in me,
Helpless, taking the place of the pitying God that should be!
But pity—the Pagan held it a vice—was in her and in me,
Helpless, taking the place of the pitying God that should be!
