And the Man made answer and said, “Even so did I.”

  And again God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.

  And God said to the Man, “Thy life hath been evil, and the Beauty I have shown thou hast sought for, and the Good I have hidden thou didst pass by. The walls of thy chamber were painted with images, and from the bed of thine abominations thou didst rise up to the sound of flutes. Thou didst build seven altars to the sins I have suffered, and didst eat of the thing that may not be eaten, and the purple of thy raiment was broidered with the three signs of shame. Thine idols were neither of gold nor of silver that endure, but of flesh that dieth. Thou didst stain their hair with perfumes and put pomegranates in their hands. Thou didst stain their feet with saffron and spread carpets before them. With antimony thou didst stain their eyelids and their bodies thou didst smear with myrrh. Thou didst bow thyself to the ground before them, and the thrones of thine idols were set in the sun. Thou didst show to the sun thy shame and to the moon thy madness.”

  And the Man made answer and said, “Even so did I.”

  And a third time God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.

  And God said to the Man, “Evil hath been thy life, and with evil didst thou requite good, and with wrongdoing kindness. The hands that fed thee thou didst wound, and the breasts that gave thee suck thou didst despise. He who came to thee with water went away thirsting, and the outlawed men who hid thee in their tents at night thou didst betray before dawn. Thine enemy who spared thee thou didst snare in an ambush, and the friend who walked with thee thou didst sell for a price, and to those who brought thee Love thou didst ever give Lust in thy turn.”

  And the Man made answer and said, “Even so did I.”

  And God closed the Book of the Life of the Man, and said, “Surely I will send thee into Hell. Even into Hell will I send thee.”

  And the Man cried out, “Thou canst not.”

  And God said to the Man, “Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and for what reason?”

  “Because in Hell have I always lived,” answered the Man.

  And there was silence in the House of Judgment.

  And after a space God spake, and said to the Man, “Seeing that I may not send thee into Hell, surely I will send thee unto Heaven. Even unto Heaven will I send thee.”

  And the Man cried out, “Thou canst not.”

  And God said to the Man, “Wherefore can I not send thee unto Heaven, and for what reason?”

  “Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine it,” answered the Man.

  And there was silence in the House of Judgment.

  The Teacher of Wisdom

  From his childhood he had been as one filled with the perfect knowledge of God, and even while he was yet but a lad many of the saints, as well as certain holy women who dwelt in the free city of his birth, had been stirred to much wonder by the grave wisdom of his answers.

  And when his parents had given him the robe and the ring of manhood he kissed them, and left them and went out into the world, that he might speak to the world about God. For there were at that time many in the world who either knew not God at all, or had but an incomplete knowledge of Him, or worshipped the false gods who dwell in groves and have no care of their worshippers.

  And he set his face to the sun and journeyed, walking without sandals, as he had seen the saints walk, and carrying at his girdle a leathern wallet and a little water-bottle of burnt clay.

  And as he walked along the highway he was full of the joy that comes from the perfect knowledge of God, and he sang praises unto God without ceasing; and after a time he reached a strange land in which there were many cities.

  And he passed through eleven cities. And some of these cities were in valleys, and others were by the banks of great rivers, and others were set on hills. And in each city he found a disciple who loved him and followed him, and a great multitude also of people followed him from each city, and the knowledge of God spread in the whole land, and many of the rulers were converted, and the priests of the temples in which there were idols found that half of their gain was gone, and when they beat upon their drums at noon none, or but a few, came with peacocks and with offerings of flesh as had been the custom of the land before his coming.

  Yet the more the people followed him, and the greater the number of his disciples, the greater became his sorrow. And he knew not why his sorrow was so great. For he spoke ever about God, and out of the fullness of that perfect knowledge of God which God had Himself given to him.

  And one evening he passed out of the eleventh city, which was a city of Armenia, and his disciples and a great crowd of people followed after him; and he went up on to a mountain and sat down on a rock that was on the mountain, and his disciples stood round him, and the multitude knelt in the valley.

  And he bowed his head on his hands and wept, and said to his Soul, “Why is it that I am full of sorrow and fear, and that each of my disciples is an enemy that walks in the noonday?” And his Soul answered him and said, “God filled thee with the perfect knowledge of Himself, and thou hast given this knowledge away to others. The pearl of great price thou hast divided, and the vesture without seam thou hast parted asunder. He who giveth away wisdom robbeth himself. He is as one who giveth his treasure to a robber. Is not God wiser than thou art? Who art thou to give away the secret that God hath told thee? I was rich once, and thou hast made me poor. Once I saw God, and now thou hast hidden Him from me.”

  And he wept again, for he knew that his Soul spake truth to him, and that he had given to others the perfect knowledge of God, and that he was as one clinging to the skirts of God, and that his faith was leaving him by reason of the number of those who believed in him.

  And he said to himself, “I will talk no more about God. He who giveth away wisdom robbeth himself.”

  And after the space of some hours his disciples came near him and bowed themselves to the ground and said, “Master, talk to us about God, for thou hast the perfect knowledge of God, and no man save thee hath this knowledge.”

  And he answered them and said, “I will talk to you about all other things that are in heaven and on earth, but about God I will not talk to you. Neither now, nor at any time, will I talk to you about God.”

  And they were wroth with him and said to him, “Thou hast led us into the desert that we might hearken to thee. Wilt thou send us away hungry, and the great multitude that thou hast made to follow thee?”

  And he answered them and said, “I will not talk to you about God.”

  And the multitude murmured against him and said to him, “Thou hast led us into the desert, and hast given us no food to eat. Talk to us about God and it will suffice us.”

  But he answered them not a word. For he knew that if he spake to them about God he would give away his treasure.

  And his disciples went away sadly, and the multitude of people returned to their own homes. And many died on the way.

  And when he was alone he rose up and set his face to the moon, and journeyed for seven moons, speaking to no man nor making any answer. And when the seventh moon had waned he reached that desert which is the desert of the Great River. And having found a cavern in which a Centaur had once dwelt, he took it for his place of dwelling, and made himself a mat of reeds on which to lie, and became a hermit. And every hour the Hermit praised God that He had suffered him to keep some knowledge of Him and of His wonderful greatness.

  Now, one evening, as the Hermit was seated before the cavern in which he had made his place of dwelling, he beheld a young man of evil and beautiful face who passed by in mean apparel and with empty hands. Every evening with empty hands the young man passed by, and every morning he returned with his hands full of purple and pearls. He was a robber, and robbed the caravans of the merchants.

  And the Hermit looked at him and pitied him. But he spoke not a word. For he knew that he who speaks a word loses his faith.

  And one morning, as the young man returned with his hands full of purple and pearls, he stopped and frowned and stamped his foot upon the sand, and said to the Hermit: “Why do you look at me ever in this manner as I pass by? What is it that I see in your eyes? For no man has looked at me before in this manner. And the thing is a thorn and a trouble to me.”

  And the Hermit answered him and said, “What you see in my eyes is pity. Pity is what looks out at you from my eyes.”

  And the young man laughed with scorn, and cried to the Hermit in a bitter voice, and said to him, “I have purple and pearls in my hands, and you have but a mat of reeds on which to lie. What pity should you have for me? And for what reason have you this pity?”

  “I have pity for you,” said the Hermit, “because you have no knowledge of God.”

  “Is this knowledge of God a precious thing?” asked the young man, and he came close to the mouth of the cavern.

  “It is more precious than all the purple and the pearls of the world,” answered the Hermit.

  “And have you got it?” said the young Robber, and he came closer still.

  “Once, indeed,” answered the Hermit, “I possessed the perfect knowledge of God. But in my foolishness I parted with it, and divided it amongst others. Yet even now is such knowledge as remains to me more precious than purple or pearls.”

  And when the young Robber heard this he threw away the purple and the pearls that he was bearing in his hands, and drawing a sharp sword of curved steel he said to the Hermit, “Give me, forthwith this knowledge of God that you possess, or I will surely slay you. Wherefore should I not slay him who has a treasure greater than my treasure?”

  And the Hermit spread out his arms and said, “Were it not better for me to go unto the uttermost courts of God and praise Him, than to live in the world and have no knowledge of Him? Slay me if that be your desire. But I will not give away my knowledge of God.”

  And the young Robber knelt down and besought him, but the Hermit would not talk to him about God, nor give him his Treasure, and the young Robber rose up and said to the Hermit, “Be it as you will. As for myself, I will go to the City of the Seven Sins, that is but three days’ journey from this place, and for my purple they will give me pleasure, and for my pearls they will sell me joy.” And he took up the purple and the pearls and went swiftly away.

  And the Hermit cried out and followed him and besought him. For the space of three days he followed the young Robber on the road and entreated him to return, nor to enter into the City of the Seven Sins.

  And ever and anon the young Robber looked back at the Hermit and called to him, and said, “Will you give me this knowledge of God which is more precious than purple and pearls? If you will give me that, I will not enter the city.”

  And ever did the Hermit answer, “All things that I have I will give thee, save that one thing only. For that thing it is not lawful for me to give away.”

  And in the twilight of the third day they came nigh to the great scarlet gates of the City of the Seven Sins. And from the city there came the sound of much laughter.

  And the young Robber laughed in answer, and sought to knock at the gate. And as he did so the Hermit ran forward and caught him by the skirts of his raiment, and said to him: “Stretch forth your hands, and set your arms around my neck, and put your ear close to my lips, and I will give you what remains to me of the knowledge of God.” And the young Robber stopped.

  And when the Hermit had given away his knowledge of God, he fell upon the ground and wept, and a great darkness hid from him the city and the young Robber, so that he saw them no more.

  And as he lay there weeping he was ware of One who was standing beside him; and He who was standing beside him had feet of brass and hair like fine wool. And He raised the Hermit up, and said to him: “Before this time thou hadst the perfect knowledge of God. Now thou shalt have the perfect love of God. Wherefore art thou weeping?” And he kissed him.

  The Ballad of Reading Gaol

  In Memoriam C. T. W., Sometime Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards, Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire, July 7, 1896

  I

  He did not wear his scarlet coat,

  For blood and wine are red,

  And blood and wine were on his hands

  When they found him with the dead,

  The poor dead woman whom he loved,

  And murdered in her bed.

  He walked amongst the Trial Men

  In a suit of shabby grey;

  A cricket cap was on his head,

  And his step seemed light and gay;

  But I never saw a man who looked

  So wistfully at the day.

  I never saw a man who looked

  With such a wistful eye

  Upon that little tent of blue

  Which prisoners call the sky,

  And at every drifting cloud that went

  With sails of silver by.

  I walked, with other souls in pain,

  Within another ring,

  And was wondering if the man had done

  A great or little thing,

  When a voice behind me whispered low,

  “That fellow’s got to swing.”

  Dear Christ! the very prison walls

  Suddenly seemed to reel,

  And the sky above my head became

  Like a casque of scorching steel;

  And, though I was a soul in pain,

  My pain I could not feel.

  I only knew what hunted thought

  Quickened his step, and why

  He looked upon the garish day

  With such a wistful eye;

  The man had killed the thing he loved,

  And so he had to die.

  * * *

  Yet each man kills the thing he loves,

  By each let this be heard,

  Some do it with a bitter look,

  Some with a flattering word,

  The coward does it with a kiss,

  The brave man with a sword!

  Some kill their love when they are young,

  And some when they are old;

  Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

  Some with the hands of Gold:

  The kindest use a knife, because

  The dead so soon grow cold.

  Some love too little, some too long,

  Some sell, and others buy;

  Some do the deed with many tears,

  And some without a sigh:

  For each man kills the thing he loves,

  Yet each man does not die.

  * * *

  He does not die a death of shame

  On a day of dark disgrace,

  Nor have a noose about his neck,

  Nor a cloth upon his face,

  Nor drop feet foremost through the floor

  Into an empty space.

  He does not sit with silent men

  Who watch him night and day;

  Who watch him when he tries to weep,

  And when he tries to pray;

  Who watch him lest himself should rob

  The prison of its prey.

  He does not wake at dawn to see

  Dread figures throng his room,

  The shivering Chaplain robed in white,

  The Sheriff stern with gloom,

  And the Governor all in shiny black,

  With the yellow face of Doom.

  He does not rise in piteous haste

  To put on convict-clothes,

  While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes

  Each new and nerve-twitched pose,

  Fingering a watch whose little ticks

  Are like horrible hammer-blows.

  He does not know that sickening thirst

  That sands one’s throat, before

  The hangman with his gardener’s gloves

  Slips through the padded door,

  And binds one with three leathern thongs,

  That the throat may thirst no more.

  He does not bend his head to hear

  The Burial Office read,

  Nor, while the terror of his soul

  Tells him he is not dead,

  Cross his own coffin, as he moves

  Into the hideous shed.

  He does not stare upon the air

  Through a little roof of glass: