| What are his nets, and gins and traps; |
| and how does he surround me
|
| With cold floods of abstraction, and with forests of solitude
|
| To build him castles and high spires, where kings and priests may dwell;
|
| Till she who burns with youth and knows no fixed lot is bound
|
| In a spell of law to one she loathes?
|
| And must she drag the chain
|
| Of life in weary lust? |
| Must chilling, murderous thoughts obscure
|
| The clear heaven of her eternal spring; |
| to bear the wintry rage
|
| Of a harsh terror driv’n to madness, bound to hold a rod
|
| Over her shrinking shoulders all the day, and all the night
|
| To turn the wheel of false desire, and longings that wake her womb
|
| To the abhorred birth of cherubs in the human form
|
| That live a pestilence an die a meteor, and are no more;
|
| Till the child dwell with one he hates, and do the deed he loathes
|
| And the impure scourge forge his seed into its unripe birth
|
| Ere yet his eyelids can behold the arrows of the day? |