Forget your silly self, and store
Its vital horror, stabbed and spurred
‘To fearful pace and torture wild
Deep in your true heart's core, my child!
For though I strip you bare, and run
My red-hot iron through your flesh,
‘There is a citadel that none
May touch—not God! The rotten rest
Evacuate; be seated there,
Let there be music, and Rome burn
‘Then you may climb to be aware
How well you serve my idle turn,
Yet to yourself avail. There too
Lies a last doubtful chance for you.
Behold
who dare! (Ay, you are fain!)
Purblind with prejudice? No vision,
Palsied with passion? Sight in vain.
‘Stupid with sense of self? Division,
Picture, not model? Then you win,
T painted soul, who saw your skin -—
Be soul! That saves you. If you fail,
‘Why, then, you fail! Enough of this—