The World’s Tragedy

THE BLUE DWARF. I05 ISSA Undone me quite, Nagged me with sordid greediness all night, Greed for my gold, my person — all I have. Saith not the prophet : “ Cruel as the grave ” ? That grinning mask, that musk-rat, hath enriched Her rags by every inch of me that itched ; And for one itch hath planted me another, The “ friend that sticketh closer than a brother ”. Ten groans of mine for every grin of hers ! What saith the prophet ? — “ Whited sepulchres ! ” JOHN Nay, Lord, the phrase unique is all thine own. ISSA Then write it down, an nothing less atone. And add — of all the itches that breed bile No itch beats the papyrus and the style. JOHN Hast thou no love for me, Lord ?