 | English Roses |  |
356
LIBER PUDORIS.
Ever the darkening years bring me their cruel count
Written in fire and tears, wrung from a lawless fount,
Wrought on the sinful mount—sins that I cannot name;
Marking in strife the Book of Life, which is the Book of Shame.
Written in fire and tears, wrung from a lawless fount,
Wrought on the sinful mount—sins that I cannot name;
Marking in strife the Book of Life, which is the Book of Shame.
Whether I toil or rest, moulded by feast or fight,
Pillowed on woman's breast, lost in the awful night,
Shuddering into light, shaped by the trial flame;
Cometh like breath the Book of Death, which is the Book of Shame.
Pillowed on woman's breast, lost in the awful night,
Shuddering into light, shaped by the trial flame;
Cometh like breath the Book of Death, which is the Book of Shame.
Groweth in youth and age fashioned of woe and weal
Deeper the dusky page on to the solemn seal,
Past beyond powers that heal even the sick and lame;
Forming in strife the Book of Life, which is the Book of Shame.
Deeper the dusky page on to the solemn seal,
Past beyond powers that heal even the sick and lame;
Forming in strife the Book of Life, which is the Book of Shame.
Whether I heed or not, rise like a muddy spring
Blur upon blur and spot, curses that stain and cling,
Black for the reckoning held at the Bar of Blame;
Heating like breath the Book of Death, which is the Book of Shame.
Blur upon blur and spot, curses that stain and cling,
Black for the reckoning held at the Bar of Blame;
Heating like breath the Book of Death, which is the Book of Shame.
Burning as want and wine, threatening, thwart and dim,
Broadens the damning line out of each idle whim—
Out of each error grim, right to the finished frame
Clasping in strife the Book of Life, which is the Book of Shame.
Broadens the damning line out of each idle whim—
Out of each error grim, right to the finished frame
Clasping in strife the Book of Life, which is the Book of Shame.
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