A treacherous god, they say,

yet who would wait to test

justice or worth or right,

when through a fetid night

is wafted faint and nearer—

then straight as point of steel

to one who courts swift death,

scent of Hesperidean orange-spray.

[47]

[47]

PRAYER

White, O white face—

from disenchanted days

wither alike dark rose

and fiery bays:

no gift within our hands,

nor strength to praise,

only defeat and silence;

though we lift hands, disenchanted,

of small strength, nor raise

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