Stones from The Quarry | ||
148
OUT, DAMNÈD FIEND!
I cannot lay this Spirit! It will riseWith “damnable iteration;” like the Ghost
That scared Macbeth's five wits, till Reason lost
Her balance—fell o' t'other side, fool-wise.
This fiend no circle, spell can exorcise;
It rises—still within, ay, where I most
Potential drew the lines; chills more than frost,
Benumbs more than Medusa's stony eyes!
Starts up at bed and board, stalks in at feast,
Drops the slow poison in Joy's lip-raised wine;
Murders sweet sleep; heeds not the dawning East;
Clear, as at midnight dark, in mid-day shine!
It recks not ban, or bell, or book, or priest.
O God! This Spirit none can lay but Thine!
Stones from The Quarry | ||