White Stains

‘ ‘ ² Åü¿Â 127 Outward, my face and breast have leprous sores ; Inward, my filthy blood ; its poison pours Corruption through me. In the eyes of man I am contemned, the haughty one. God’s fan Is eager on my threshing-floor ; his rod Smites no vain stroke. Oh, how I curse thee, God ! What is my aid ? But yet to Satan’s power I lend my utmost vigour for an hour, To wrest Thy damned throne from out thy hands ! My aid ? How shall I burst thy bitter bands, Strike off thy shackles, from thy fetters break, I, whom Thy name appals, whose vitals quake At the dim thought of Thee ? Have mercy, Christ ! Who suffered on the cross, who sacrificed Thy heaven for three hours. Ah ! pity me, For years, not hours, condemned to agony Thrice Thine ! Have pity, hear me, virgin queen, Whose pangs of childbirth were seven times more keen Than all, since love and memory of joy Thou hadst not, but the fear of shame to cloy Even the hope of motherhood. But I, Cut off from love and joy ; its memory One black hell of distorted pain ; my shame More horrid than that first unholy flame,