One moment from my heart that is their prison.
I bore it out. That’s all there is to say.
They flash unwarning on our dozing acts,
The angel or the fiend. It seems to me
There’s nothing too sublime for Man to be
(In such clear moments),—naught too foully crawling!
What “self” is most our own, when this appalling
Apocalypse lights up the inmost facts?
Something is changed; even though one drops back
In the next instant to the old routine,