I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind,
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds. 25
VI.
Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead;
“Thou, paid by the world,—what dost thou owe
Me?” God might question: now instead