Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

Here you will find the Poem The Doom Of The Esquire Bedell of poet Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

The Doom Of The Esquire Bedell

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