THOU SHALT NOT KILL

I had grown weary of him; of his breath

And hands and features I was sick to death.

Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread;

I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.

And he must with his blank face fill my life —

Then my brain blackened; and I snatched a knife.

But ere I struck, my soul's grey deserts through

A voice cried,‘ Know at least what thing you do.’

‘ This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul,

What this thing is? somewhere where seasons roll

There is some living thing for whom this man

Is as seven heavens girt into a span,

For some one soul you take the world away —

Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!’

Then I cast down the knife upon the ground

And saw that mean man for one moment crowned.

I turned and laughed: for there was no one by —

The man that I had sought to slay was I.