Has she no broken bleeding heart, that you
must curse her now?

Is here no innocence o'erthrown, no wrecked
sweet maidenhood,
No sense of loss, like heavy stone, to make her
doubt all good?
Are here no women's ruined charms, no dead
and withering breasts?
Are here no hapless, vacant arms, which
should lull babes to rest?

And what are you, who at her gird, and deem
yourselves unstained;
Do you forget your black false word, the righteous
act disdain,
Your lust of power, the debtors tears, cold
hunger's starving cries,
And all the evil of your years, that clamors
to the skies!

Your horror is a vail to wear and cover o'er
your deeds;
Your wrongs are pointed at you there, though
none your presence heeds.
Your vileness would itself deny in falsest hate
of hers;
Gaze at yourself with inward eye, you whited
sepulchers!