English poem
To Mrs. de Paravicini, I
by Lionel Johnson (1867–1902)
Each in his proper gloom; Each in his dark, just place: The builders of their doom Hide, each his awful face.
Not less than saints, are they Heirs of Eternity: Perfect, their dreadful way; A deathless company.
Lost! lost! fallen and lost! With fierce wrath ever fresh: Each suffers in the ghost The sorrows of the flesh.
O miracle of sin! That makes itself an home, So utter black within, Thither Light cannot come!
O mighty house of hate! Stablished and guarded so, Love cannot pass the gate, Even to dull its woe!
Now, Christ compassionate! Now, bruise me with thy rod: Lest I be mine own fate, And kill the Love of God.