VIII

But pity—the Pagan held it a vice—was in her and in me,

Helpless, taking the place of the pitying God that should be!

Pity for all that aches in the grasp of an idiot power,

And pity for our own selves on an earth that bore not a flower;

Pity for all that suffers on land or in air or the deep,

And pity for our own selves till we long'd for eternal sleep.