Adown the torturing mile of street <br />I mark him come and go, <br />Thread in and out with tireless feet <br />The crossings to and fro; <br />A soul that treads without retreat <br />A labyrinth of woe. <br />Palsied with awe of such despair, <br />All living things give room, <br />They flit before his sightless glare <br />As horrid shapes, that loom <br />And shriek the curse that bids him bear <br />The symbol of his doom. <br />The very stones are coals that bake <br />And scorch his fevered skin; <br />A fire no hissing hail may slake <br />Consumes his heart within. <br />Still must he hasten on to rake <br />The furnace of his sin. <br />Still forward! forward! For he feels <br />Fierce claws that pluck his breast, <br />And blindly beckon as he reels <br />Upon his awful quest: <br />For there is that behind his heels <br />Knows neither ruth nor rest. <br />The fiends in hell have flung the dice; <br />The destinies depend <br />On feet that run for fearful price, <br />And fangs that gape to rend; <br />And still the footsteps of his Vice <br />Pursue him to the end:— <br />The feet of his incarnate Vice <br />Shall dog him to the end.<br /><br />Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-doom-of-the-esquire-bedell/
