Beside where all the matches are
And poured it out upon the floor dust,
Among the fag-ends, spit and sawdust.
'Saul Kane,' she said, 'when next you drink,
Do me the gentleness to think
That every drop of drink accursed
Makes Christ within you die of thirst,
That every dirty word you say
Is one more flint upon His way,
Another thorn about His head,