XVII. 
I am unworthy.  In the House of Pain 
There are ten thousand shrines.  Each one enfolds 
A lesser, inner, more divine, that holds 
A sin less palpable and less profane. 
The inmost is the home of God.  He moulds 
Infinity, 
The great within the small, one stainless unity ! 
 
XVIII. 
I dare not to the greater sins aspire ; 
I might—so gross am I—take pleasure in 
These filthy holocausts, that burn to sin 
A damnéd incense in the hellish fire 
Of human lust—earth’s joys no heaven may win, 
Pain holds the prize 
In blood-stained hands; Love laughs, with anguish in 
His eyes. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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