"I grasped a thread of silver; it cut me to the bone -- I reached for an apple; it was bleak as a stone -- I reached for a heart, and touched a raw blade -- And this was the bargain God had made For a little gift of speech Set a cubit higher than the common reach, A debt running on until the fool is dead." Carve a Pater Noster to put at his head As a curse or a prayer, And leave him there. |