Classic Poem

“I N place of the heart, a serpent;
Rage—for the mind's command;
An eye aflame with wildness;
A weapon in the hand;

“A brow with midnight clouded;
On the lips a cynic smile
That tells of a curse unmatchable—
Born of a sin most vile.

“Of longing, or hope, or virtue,
No vestige may there be;
You, even in vice inhuman—
What can you want of me?

“You in its maddest moment
The Deepest Pit designed,—
Let loose to sow confusion
In the order of mankind;

“Here Hatred found you crawling
Like vermin, groveling, prone,
Filled you with blood of others
And poisoned all your own.

“Your very thoughts are fiendish—
Smoke of the fires of Hell.
Weird as you are, how is it
I seem to know you well?

“Why with your wild delirium
Do you infect my sleep?
Why with my daily footstep
An equal measure keep?”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The monster mutely beckons me
Back with his ghostly hand,
And dreading his fearful answer
I heed the grim command.

“Nay, softly,” he says; “I pray thee,
Silence thy frightened moan,
And wipe the sweat from thy forehead;
My kinsman thou, my own!

“Look at me well, good cousin;
Such wert thou fashioned of!
Thou, too, wouldst me resemble
Without that magic—Love!”