27.12.2010, 17:31
THE ROGUE'S NIGHTMARE
One who, the self-same morning, had decoy'd
The widow and her son with glozing talk.
At eve through springing pastures walk'd abroad,
And, after his poor sort, enjoy'd his walk.
That night he dream'd : fresh flowers and April grass
Smother'd his cruel pen ; the white lamb kneel'd
Upon his crafty parchments, sign'd and seal'd
By victim hands ; a babbling stream did pass
Sheer through those written wiles, till that base ink,
Which robb'd the widow's mite, the orphan's dole.
Lost colour. But that dream-begotten blink
Of damage waked at once his mammon-soul ;
From his keen glance all vernal tokens shrink
While Fraud and Twilight watch the lying scroll.
One who, the self-same morning, had decoy'd
The widow and her son with glozing talk.
At eve through springing pastures walk'd abroad,
And, after his poor sort, enjoy'd his walk.
That night he dream'd : fresh flowers and April grass
Smother'd his cruel pen ; the white lamb kneel'd
Upon his crafty parchments, sign'd and seal'd
By victim hands ; a babbling stream did pass
Sheer through those written wiles, till that base ink,
Which robb'd the widow's mite, the orphan's dole.
Lost colour. But that dream-begotten blink
Of damage waked at once his mammon-soul ;
From his keen glance all vernal tokens shrink
While Fraud and Twilight watch the lying scroll.