THE WHITE WIND. 
67 
With face averted that constrains me to him — 
And this blind worm is avarice.  Let me woo him !  
Sweet God !  I’ll serve thee.  This is Piety  
Twin-bodied with Hypocrisy that darts  
His icy slime into my heart of hearts.  
Here cringing Pity my wet womb inflates,  
And puffed-out Charity with loose red cheeks  
And greasy eyes.  The Bigotry that sneaks  
Home to my home ;  and once installed there, hates 
The bleeding wound his mouth is fastened on ;  
And here is Chastity that slavering sates  
His lust without the walls, grins, and is gone,  
Preening himself that his lewd lips relent. 
This must be Cunning that insinuates  
His venom ;  this deformed and bent  
Dog-like abortion, stinking excrement,  
Is Slave-morality.  Come all !  I have  
A lyre still tuneable to your great theme,  
A pit as hospitable as the grave.  
Come, dead and living !  I am yours to-night.  
Score after score !  oh God — is this a dream ?  
Then let me never wake !  Exhaustless might  
Thrills me — as ever it shall — from the first thrust  
Of that white wind whose steeltipped gust