The World’s Tragedy

I06 THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. ISSA Yes, lad, yes. — Tinged through with many-coloured bitterness ! For as I lay this night of hateful heat, The blow-flies buzzing, the eternal bleat Of strayed sheep, the intense malefic hum Of the accurst mosquito, the far drum Of the winged beetle, the reiterate stings Of fouler vermin, the hot breath that brings The sunset’s garlic to the midnight’s rose, The red whore’s writhings, clutches swift to close On this worn limb, exact the woman-debt To the last mite, the cold grey glutinous sweat — These things, I say, assailed me, bade me pause Praising the goodness of the great First Cause. JOHN Yet all we know His vast benevolence. ISSA Thou hast religion, but no common sense. The cud of wisdom is not duly chewed When whoredom’s whittled with a platitude.