160 . Evil

NOT Beelzebub, but white archangel, I

Turn the dim glass and shift the sands again,

And touch the eyelids of the sons of men

Lest they forget—forget and drowsy lie

In Fate’s unfurrowed fallow till they die—

As seed that quickens not for dawns that leap

From out the dark of immemorial years,

With kiss of wind and sun and wizard tears

Of fugitive clouds to wake them from their sleep.

With milestones I have set the crumbling sod

Of human judgement that they stray not wide,

Nor languish lost in labyrinths alway;

And smile in pity when I hear them pray

That Wrong’s rude whips from them be turned aside,

Who call me Evil—not discerning God.