And I think my heart is not beating at all!
And my brain, it keeps whirling round and round,
Like a sing-song wheel through a ship at night;
And the seven words that constantly sound
Are 'you shall follow me, sweet,' and 'I'll write.'
I wonder if I have been going mad,
In the strange wild world I am living in?
I think that I have—I hop'd that I had—
For I weary with wondering, what is sin?
There's blood on your hand—there's blood on your soul—