It was not when temptation came, <br />Swiftly and blastingly as flame, <br />And seared me white with burning scars; <br />When I stood up for age-long wars <br />And held the very Fiend at grips; <br />When all my mutinous body rose <br />To range itself beside my foes, <br />And, like a greyhound in the slips, <br />The Beast that dwells within me roared, <br />Lunging and straining at his cord. . . . <br />For all the blusterings of Hell, <br />It was not then I slipped and fell; <br />For all the storm, for all the hate, <br />I kept my soul inviolate! <br /> <br />But when the fight was fought and won, <br />And there was Peace as still as Death <br />On everything beneath the sun. <br />Just as I started to draw breath, <br />And yawn, and stretch, and pat myself, <br />-- The grass began to whisper things -- <br />And every tree became an elf, <br />That grinned and chuckled counsellings: <br />Birds, beasts, one thing alone they said, <br />Beating and dinning at my head. <br />I could not fly. I could not shun it. <br />Slimily twisting, slow and blind, <br />It crept and crept into my mind. <br />Whispered and shouted, sneered and laughed, <br />Screamed out until my brain was daft. . . . <br />One snaky word, "What if you'd done it?" <br /> <br />And I began to think . . . <br />Ah, well, <br />What matter how I slipped and fell? <br />Or you, you gutter-searcher say! <br />Tell where you found me yesterday!<br /><br />Stephen Vincent Benet<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-breaking-point/
