Classic Poem

Internal Cerberus, whose griping fangs,
That gnaw the soul are the Mind's secret pangs,
Thou greedy Vulture that dost gorging tire
On hearts corrupted by impure desire.
Subtle and buzzing Hornet! that dost ring
A peal of horror ere thou givest the sting.
The soul's rough file that smoothness does impart,
The hammer that does break a stony heart,
The worm that never dies! the thorn within
That pricks and pains: the whip and scourge of sin;
The voice of God in Man! which without rest
Doth softly cry within a troubled Breast;
To all temptations is that soul left free
That makes not to itself a curb of me.