And see I do—for there comes in sight—a man, it sure must be!—
Who staggeringly, stumblingly rises, falls, rises, at random flings his weight
On and on, anyhow onward—a man that's mad he arrives too late!
Else why does he wave a something white high-flourished above his head?
Why does not he call, cry,—curse the fool!—why throw up his arms instead?
O take this fist in your own face, fool! Why does not yourself shout "Stay!
Here's a man comes rushing, might and main, with something he 's mad to say"?
And a minute, only a moment, to have hell-fire boil up in your brain,
And ere you can judge things right, choose heaven,—time 's over, repentance vain!
They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of smoke: I see no more