Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/160



My Maker shunneth me: Even as a wretch stricken with leprosy, So hold I pestilent supremacy. Yea! He hath fled far as the uttermost star, Beyond the unperturbed fastnesses of night And dreams that bastioned are By fretted towers of sleep that scare His light.

Of wisdom writ, whereto My burdened feet may haste withouten rue, I may not spell—and I am sore to do. Yea, all (seeing my Maker hath such dread), Even mine own self-love, wists not but to fly To Him, and sore besped Leaves me, its captain, in such mutiny.

Will, deemed incorporate With me, hath flown ere love, to expiate Its sinful stay where He did habitate.