Vent all your coward's wrath
Upon me so!—
Yes, I have crossed your path
And will not go!
Storm at me hate, and name
Me all that's vile,
“Lust,” “filth,” “disease,” and “shame,”
I only smile.
Me brute rage can not hurt,
It only flings
In your own eyes blind dirt
That bites and stings.
Rave at your like such whine,
Your fellow-men,
This wrath!— great God! and mine!—
What is it then?
No words! no oaths! such hate
As devils smile
When raw success cries “wait!”
And “afterwhile!”
A woman I and ill,
A courtesan
You wearied of, would kill,
And you — a man!
You, you — unnamable!
A thing there's not,
Too base to burn in Hell,
Too vile to rot.