Читать книгу Strange Visitors - Henry J. Horn - Страница 12

My soul is sick of calumny and lies:

Men gloat on evil—even woman's hand

Will dabble in the mire, nor heed the cries

Of the poor victim whom she seeks to brand

In thy sweet name, Religion, through the land!

Like the keen tempest she doth strip her prey,

Tossing him bare and wrecked upon the strand,

While vaunting her misdeeds before the day,

Bearing a monument which crumbles like the clay.