Roll up the night on a curtain: let the stars fade one by one:
Out of the face of the heavens my anger shall blot the sun.
For the man I made and breathed on, filled with my breath of breath,
Hath sown the seas with hatred, his skies are dark with death.
The babe is slain at the bosom, the babe who beholds my face;
A welter of woe he leaves it,—the dream of my love and grace.
“Love was the dower I gave him, love the light of his days,
Love the core of his being, love, and the upward gaze.
Hate is the meat he feeds on, hate is his daily bread:
His drink is the blood of his brother, whom Cain hath stricken dead.