JOHN MARSTON

The bitterness of death and bitterer scorn

Breathes from the broad-leafed aloe-plant whence thou

Wast fain to gather for thy bended brow

A chaplet by no gentler forehead worn.

Grief deep as hell, wrath hardly to be borne,

Ploughed up thy soul till round the furrowing plough

The strange black soil foamed, as a black beaked prow

Bids night-black waves foam where its track has torn.

Too faint the phrase for thee that only saith

Scorn bitterer than the bitterness of death

Pervades the sullen splendour of thy soul,

Where hate and pain make war on force and fraud

And all the strengths of tyrants; whence unflawed

It keeps this noble heart of hatred whole.