 | The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir |  |
IX.
Soul-sicken'd, satiate, and dissatisfied,An alter'd being homewards I return'd,
My thoughts revolting at the thirst for blood,
So brutalising, so destructive of
The finer sensibilities, which man
In boyhood owns, and which the world destroys.
Nature had preach'd a sermon to my heart:
And from that moment, on that snowy morn—
(Seeing that earth enough of suffering has
And death)—all cruelty my soul abhorr'd,
Yea, loathed the purpose and the power to kill.
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |