it: —      Stung with the shame and the secret fury That comes to the man who has thrown his pittance Of self at a traitor's feet, I wandered Weeks and weeks in a baffled frenzy, Till at last the devil spoke. I heard him, And laughed at the love that strove to touch me, —      The dead, lost love; and I gripped the demon Close to my breast, and held him, praising The fates and the furies that gave me the courage To follow his wild command. Forgetful Of all to come when the work was over, —      There came to me then no stony vision Of these three hundred days, — I cherished An awful joy in my brain. I pondered And weighed the thing in my mind, and gloried In life to think that I was to conquer Death at his own dark door, — and chuckled To think of it done so cleanly. One evening I knew that my time had come. I shuddered A little, but rather for doubt than terror, And followed him, — led by the nameless devil I worshipped and called my brother. The city Shone like a dream that night; the windows Flashed with a piercing flame, and the pavements Pulsed and swayed with a warmth — or something That seemed so then to my feet — and thrilled me With a quick, dizzy joy; and the women And men, like marvellous things of magic, Floated and laughed and sang by my shoulder, Sent with a wizard motion. Through it And over and under it all there sounded A murmur of life, like bees; and I listened And laughed again to think of the flower That grew, blood-red, for me! . . . This fellow Was one of the popular sort who flourish Unruffled where gods would fall. For a conscience He carried a snug deceit that made him The man of the time and the place, whatever The time or the place might be. Were he sounding, With a genial craft that cloaked its purpose, Nigh to itself, the depth of a woman Fooled with his brainless art, or sending The midnight home with songs and bottles, —      The cad was there, and his ease forever Shone with the smooth and slippery polish That tells the snake. That night he drifted Into an up-town haunt and ordered —      Whatever it was — with a soft assurance That made me mad as I stood behind him, Gripping his death, and waited. Coward, I think, is the name the world has given To men like me; but I'll swear I never Thought of my own disgrace when I shot him —      Yes, in the back, — I know it, I know it Now; but what if I do? . . . As I watched him Lying there dead in the scattered sawdust, Wet with a day's blown froth, I noted That things were still; that the walnut tables,    

 Prev. P 29/37 next