The Mystic

When, wild and spent, I fly before
Some steadfast Fate, serene, malign,
Let me not think, Lord, I implore
Those dark and awful eyes are thine!

Oh, when the dogs of life are loose,
And, raging, follow on my track.
Let me not dream, by chance or use.
The leash was thine that held the pack!

Nay, hunted, breathless, faint and prone.
With my last gaze, ah, let me see
The shape I know, nor shall disown.
Thy shape, oh Grod, that runs with me!