ASK not my pardon! For if one hath need 
Once to forgive the god that he hath raised, 
No further creed 
Can that god give; but 'neath the soul who praised 
 Lies bruisèd like a reed.

Let your dark plume, in passing leave a stain 
On my plume's whiteness: call you bitter, sweet: 
Give plague, or pain: 
But cringe not, fallen and fawning at my feet, 
 By that to rise again.

No! go your wild and mad way, and seem at least 
The god you were . . . assume your aureole: 
Make me no priest 
To wash hands in the waters of your soul, 
 Before I go to feast!