Page:Demeter and other poems (IA demeterotherpoem00tennrich).pdf/165

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ROMNEY'S REMORSE
151
‘Nay, Lord, for Art,' why, that would sound so meanThat all the dead, who wait the doom of HellFor bolder sins than mine, adulteries,Wife-murders,—nay, the ruthless MussulmanWho flings his bowstrung Harem in the sea,Would turn, and glare at me, and point and jeer,And gibber at the worm, who, living, madeThe wife of wives a widow-bride, and lostSalvation for a sketch.I am wild again!The coals of fire you heap upon my headHave crazed me. Someone knocking there without?No! Will my Indian brother come? to findMe or my coffin? Should I know the man?This worn-out Reason dying in her house
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