3
Me brute rage can not hurt,
It only flings
In your own eyes blind dirt
That bites and stings.
4
Rave at your like such whine,
Your fellow-men,
This wrath!—great God! and mine!—
What is it then?
5
No words! no oaths! such hate
As devils smile
When raw success cries "wait!"
And "afterwhile!"
6
A woman I and ill,
A courtesan
You wearied of, would kill,
And you—a man!
7
You, you—unnamable!
A thing there's not,
Too base to burn in Hell,
Too vile to rot.