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Procla.
Alas! Have I deserved
This bitterness?
Pilate.
Because you harp and harp
On one cross theme - that necessary death.
You know it vexed me sharply. Let me be.
The past is past, the dead are dead, and groans
And "would I had not"s will not make not done
That which was not done scarce a minute back.
Fate's self can never say "the past is not,"
Only the coming swerves for fate or gods,
And how can a man's sorrow touch it then?
Procla.
He may find good from sorrow for ill deeds.
Pilate.
What good? Will sorrow lengthen a man's days
Or give him wealth or triumphs? Sorrow eats
Into the heart like a wasp into the fruit,
Eats up the pith within you, leaves you, like
The Dead Sea dust fruits, proper to the sight
For customary use, but inwardly
Unserviceable ashes. Do you think
I've vexed Apollo or some fire-breathed God
Who'll dart a plague on me unless I bend
And offer hecatombs? No, no, the wrong
Is but against my nature and the man
Who died not having sinned; so there is none,
Nor God, nor man, to whom I can atone.
Nor see I how my sorrowing would help.
Next |
A Woman Sold
Bartimaeus
Judas
Pilate
The Walk To Emmaus
A Bride
A March Night
A Messenger
A Mother's Cry
A Wedding
Afterwards
Dead Amy
Deserted
Dreaming
Glad Waves
Going
How The Brook Sings
If
In The Storm
In The Sunshine
Looking Downstairs
Mary Lost
Never Again
Night Whispers
On The Lake
On The Shore
Our Lily
Passing Away
Perjured
Safe
Shadow
Sunlight
The Blush Rose
The Gift
The Heiress' Wooer
The Hidden Wound
The Lake
The Land Of Happy Dreams
The Old Year Out
The Red Star On The Hill
The River
The Setting Star
The Shadow Of A Cloud
To And Fro
To One Of Many
Too faithful
Two Maidens |
