For shapes of evil shine beside thy shade,
Who from the seat of mine own soul dost lower,—
Darkness itself, that doth the light devour,—
I feel thine urgency upon me laid
To voice despair! Thou shalt not be obeyed;
Thou art my master only for thine hour!
As some sad-eyed, wan woman that is slave
To the swart Moor, being bid her lute to bring,
Since song of her strange land her lord doth crave,
With lip a-tremble dares the scourge’s sting,