The Mother’s Tragedy

26 THE MOTHER'S TRAGEDY This tragedy is terrible to me. Even I, its spirit, shudder as I see; I, passionless, the moulder of men’s hope, The slayer of them, cast no horoscope Divining what befell, And I am moved: Both love, and both are worthy to be loved. Ah Fate! if thou hadst cast the dies Whence no appeal, in any other wise! I am the soul of the grim face of things; Mine are the Sphinx’s wings; Mine own life lives with this event! Yet even I, its very self, lament The execrable tyranny, The rayless misery Of this wild whirlpool sea of circumstance. Mine old eyes look askance: It is my punishment to dwell In mine own self-created hell. [CORA vushes in. MADELINE. What curse of God hath smitten you? I see Exceeding horror in abiding shape, Blasting the countenance of peace and love With some distortion. O your mouth’s awry! CORA, 2% a hoarse, horrible voice, You cannot tell! I cannot tell myself. Some vital mist of blood is shrouding sight From all but my corruption’s self. Come here And look within mine eyes, if you can see