Swift as horse upon my feet,
Fierce as lion in my heat,
Rending, like a wisp of hay,
All that dared withstand my way,
Canst Thou see me through the gloom
Of this subterranean tomb,—
Blinded tiger in his den,
Once the lord and prince of men?
Clay was I; the potter Thou
With Thy thumb-nail smooth’dst my brow,
Roll’dst the spittle-moistened sands
Into limbs between Thy hands.
Thou didst pour into my blood
Fury of the fire and flood,
And upon the boundless skies
Thou didst first unclose my eyes.
And my breath of life was flame,
God-like from the source it came,
Whirling round like furious wind,
Thoughts upgathered in the mind.
Strong Thou mad’st me, till at length
All my weakness was my strength;
Tortured am I, blind and wrecked,
For a faulty architect.
From the woman at my side,
Was I woman-like to hide
What she asked me, as if fear
Could my iron heart come near?
Nay, I scorned and scorn again
Cowards who their tongues restrain;
Cared I no more for Thy laws
Than a wind of scattered straws.
When the earth quaked at my name
And my blood was all aflame,
Who was I to lie, and cheat
Her who clung about my feet?
From Thy open nostrils blow
Wind and tempest, rain and snow;
Dost Thou curse them on their course,
For the fury of their force?