 | The book of the dead |  |
134
[LXIII. What cuts thee from thy fellow-wretch]
What cuts thee from thy fellow-wretch,
And, in the press of busy day,
Makes gaps of solitude to stretch
About thee in the peopled way?
And, in the press of busy day,
Makes gaps of solitude to stretch
About thee in the peopled way?
I never saw thee, arm in arm,
Companioned by a brother knave,
Planning some scheme of fraud or harm,
Such as thy coward heart might brave.
Companioned by a brother knave,
Planning some scheme of fraud or harm,
Such as thy coward heart might brave.
Men talk, with an averted face,
Of gold to thee, and there they end;
There is no outcast to abase
Himself by calling thee his friend.
Of gold to thee, and there they end;
There is no outcast to abase
Himself by calling thee his friend.
Cold serpent, never on thy head
Had woman's eye one glance to fling;
She shrank, with an instinctive dread,
That saved her from thy treacherous sting.
Had woman's eye one glance to fling;
She shrank, with an instinctive dread,
That saved her from thy treacherous sting.
135
Art thou self-conscious that for thee
No kindred heart shall ever swell,
That to thy meanness there shall be
Companionship,—no, not in hell?
No kindred heart shall ever swell,
That to thy meanness there shall be
Companionship,—no, not in hell?
| The book of the dead | |