  PALLID, mis-shapen he stands. The world's grimed thumb, Now hooked securely in his matted hair, Has haled him struggling from his poisonous slum And flung him mute as fish close-netted there. His bloodless hands entalon that iron rail. He gloats in beastlike trance. His settling eyes From staring face to face rove on—and quail. Justice for carrion pants; and these the flies. Voice after voice in smooth impartial drone Erects horrific in his darkening brain A timber framework, where agape, alone Bright life will kiss good-bye the cheek of Cain. Sudden like wolf he cries; and sweats to see When howls man's soul, it howls inaudibly.
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