The Sting of Death
‘Is Sin, then, fair?’
Nay, love, come now,
Put back the hair
From his sunny brow;
See, here, blood-red
Across his head
A brand is set,
The word—'Regret.’
‘Is Sin so fleet
That while he stays,
Our hands and feet
May go his ways?’
Nay, love, his breath
Clings round like death,
He slakes desire
With liquid fire.
‘Is Sin Death’s sting?’
Ay, sure he is,
His golden wing
Darkens man’s bliss;
And when Death comes,
Sin sits and hums
A chaunt of fears
Into man’s ears.
‘How slayeth Sin?’
First, God is hid,
And the heart within
By its own self chid;
Then the maddened brain
Is scourged by pain
To sin as before
And more and more,
For evermore.
