With the neglectful glance, that seemed to say,
Thou art not of us now! Half-way to meet
And pay back scorn by scorn, keener than that
The eye of man e’er threw upon me—thus
Was I ever—thus will ever be:
Though it heap coals of fire upon my head,
And writhe me with its tortures, still my soul,
Strong in its desperate fury, asks no boon
But hate, to be repaid by darker hate—
Failing in that, to die unwept, unsung.