The man had killed the thing he loved And so he had to die. Yet each man kills the thing he loves By each let this be heard. Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword;
Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long, some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh; for each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.
Like two doomed ships that pass in storm We had crossed each other's way; But we made no sign, we said no word, We had no word to say; For we did not meet in the holy night, But in the shameful day. Alas! it is a fearful thing To feel another's guilt! For, right within, the sword of sin Pierced to its poisoned hilt. And as molten lead were the tears we shed For the blood we had not spilt.
And as one sees most fearful things In the crystal of a dream, We saw the greasy hempen rope Hooked to the blackened beam, And heard the prayer the hangman's snare strangled into a scream. And all the woe that moved him so That he gave that bitter cry, And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats None knew so well as I: For he who live more lives than one More deaths than one must die.
Yet all is well; he has but passed To life's appointed bourne: And alien tears will fill for him Pity's long-broken urn, for his mourners will be outcast men, and outcasts always mourn. The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.