Forgiveness

ASK not my pardon! For if one hath need Once to forgive the god that he hath raised, No further creed Can that god give; but 'neath the soul who praised Lies bruisèd like a reed. Let your dark plume, in passing leave a stain On my plume's whiteness: call you bitter, sweet: Give plague, or pain: But cringe not, fallen and fawning at my feet, By that to rise again. No! go your wild and mad way, and seem at least The god you were . . . assume your aureole: Make me no priest To wash hands in the waters of your soul, Before I go to feast!