CHECK AND COUNTER-CHECK.

Vent all your coward's wrath

Upon me so!—

Yes, I have crossed your path

And will not go!

Storm at me hate, and name

Me all that's vile,

“Lust,” “filth,” “disease,” and “shame,”

I only smile.

Me brute rage can not hurt,

It only flings

In your own eyes blind dirt

That bites and stings.

Rave at your like such whine,

Your fellow-men,

This wrath!— great God! and mine!—

What is it then?

No words! no oaths! such hate

As devils smile

When raw success cries “wait!”

And “afterwhile!”

A woman I and ill,

A courtesan

You wearied of, would kill,

And you — a man!

You, you — unnamable!

A thing there's not,

Too base to burn in Hell,

Too vile to rot.