He slays the foes of his guilty thoughts, while the demons trouble him.
Many the foes that I slew, With the sword of my guilt, red as blood— Many the demons that blew Their mad, flame-horns through my mood, As I thundered that horrible wood, To the place where a world went through.
Now he hates the morrows to come
White, meagre, the days yet to come Seemed wintry and hateful to me: Would mornings wake, pitiless, dumb, With horror and dread agony— And the moan of that terrible sea Beat the dead-march of life like a drum,
with the remorse for his wrecked days.
In the hands of some hideous mime— Some strange, inextinguishable flame That would burn at my heart for all time— Some horror too dread to have name, As of one who had played for a game, Then slipped and was lost in the slime?
He knows the end cometh.
(I am but the poor wreck of a man,) When I came to that horrible place, (Love was never a part of God’s plan,) And looked her and death in the face, And knew me unworthy and base, And the shores where the black waters ran;—
They come to the outer shore and look each on each through the mists, and read the ancient curse there,
When we came to that lone, outer shore, Where the world sundered, parting us two; (God and the dread nevermore!) When we came where the thick mists blew, So face could scarce on face, through, Read the woe-rune of earth’s ancient lore;—