What has He done for you who spentA bleeding life for His content?Or is the white Christ, too, distraughtBy these dark sins His Father wrought?"
I mocked her so until I brokeBeneath my passion's heavy yoke.My world went black with grief and pain;My very bitterness was slain,And I had need of only sleep,Or some dim place where I might weepMy life away, some misty hauntWhere never man might come to tauntMe with the thought of how men scarTheir brothers here, or what we areUpon this most accursèd star.Not that sweet sleep from which some wakeAll fetterless, without an acheOf heart or limb, but such a sleepAs had raped him, eternal, deep;—Deep as my woe, vast as my pain,Sleep of the young and early-slain.My Lycidas was dead. There swungIn all his glory, lusty, young,My Jonathan, my Patrocles,(For with his death there perished these)And I had neither sword nor song,
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