An Assassin
Cat-like he creeps along where ways are dim,
From covert unto covert’s secrecy;
His shadow in the moonlight shrinks from him
And crouches warily.
He hugs strange envies to his breast, and nurses
Wild hatreds, till the murderous hand he grips
Falls, quivering with the tension of the curses
He launches from his lips.
Drenched in his victim’s blood he holds high revel;
He mocks at justice, and in all men’s eyes
Insults his God—and no one but the devil
Is sorry when he dies.