In stream and grass and soft bird's-wing;Spring was in them and they were spring.Then say, a smudge across the day,A bit of crass and filthy clay,A blot of ink upon a whitePage in a book of gold; a tightCurled worm hid in the festive rose,A mind so foul it hurt your nose,Came one of earth's serene elect,His righteous being warped and fleckedWith what his thoughts were: stench and smut. . . .I had gone on unheeding butHe struck me down, he called her slut,And black man's mistress, bawdy whore,And such like names, and many more—(Christ, what has spring to answer for!)I had gone on, I had been wise,Knowing my value in those eyesThat seared me through and out and in,Finding a thing to taunt and grinAt in my hair and hue. My rightI knew could not outweigh his mightWho had the law for satellite—Only I turned to look at her,The early spring's first Worshiper,(Spring, what have you to answer for?)
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