 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
127
PAIN.
Delay not, sinner, till the hour of painTo seek repentance: pain is absolute,
Exacting all the body, all the brain,
Humanity's stern king from head to foot:
How canst thou pray, while fever'd arrows shoot
Thro' this torn targe,—while every bone doth ache,
And the scared mind raves up and down her cell
Restless and begging rest for mercy's sake?
Add not to death the bitter fears of hell;
Take pity on thy future self, poor man,
While yet in strength thy timely wisdom can;
Wrestle to-day with sin; and spare that strife
Of meeting all its terrors in the van,
Just at the ebbing agony of life.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |