When winds of conscience waft about thy head,
And brooks of rue do babble in thy brain,
Seek not thy quietude in lonely bed,
Nor utter careful words to stay thy pain.
For though words chosen well may ease the smart,
And turn the wretched, hateful wrong to right,
Alas, in sooth, they cannot touch the heart,
Nor kill Remorse, which flies upon the night,
With Satan, the Accuser, who will steal,
Betimes to whisper softly in thine ears,
Of dark deeds done; of rack, of cord, of wheel,
And play upon the pipes of hidden fears.
Thus torn asunder, none shall see thy strife;
Thy spotted hand; thy bloody, dripping knife.