THE GREY NIGHT. 
I2I 
To grind thee in the mills of martyrdom, 
That at last thy spirit may fully come 
To understand and to repent — 
Else might thy new-born strength relent 
And all thy father’s hate corrode 
Thy will, as the breath of a bloat toad 
Might rot the lungs of a young child. 
Then were indeed the earth defiled 
And the sole seedling that must lurk 
In the desert world — waste by thy Work — 
Itself its loveliness transplant 
To a flawless field whose grace should grant 
Life to that bright inhabitant. 
 
ISSA 
 
These eyes are blind with blood and tears ; 
They strain across the doubtful years ; 
They search the stars :  the earth they scan ; 
All, all spells Misery to Man. 
 
Of whom I am.  First, fables gross and foul 
Hooted and hissed by human snake and owl 
About me, twisted into doleful engines 
Of greed, hate, envy, jealousy and vengeance.