The World’s Tragedy

THE GREY NIGHT. I2I To grind thee in the mills of martyrdom, That at last thy spirit may fully come To understand and to repent — Else might thy new-born strength relent And all thy father’s hate corrode Thy will, as the breath of a bloat toad Might rot the lungs of a young child. Then were indeed the earth defiled And the sole seedling that must lurk In the desert world — waste by thy Work — Itself its loveliness transplant To a flawless field whose grace should grant Life to that bright inhabitant. ISSA These eyes are blind with blood and tears ; They strain across the doubtful years ; They search the stars : the earth they scan ; All, all spells Misery to Man. Of whom I am. First, fables gross and foul Hooted and hissed by human snake and owl About me, twisted into doleful engines Of greed, hate, envy, jealousy and vengeance.