The Resolve

Thou intimate, malign, benumbing power
I cannot name, since names that men have made
For shapes of evil shine beside thy shade,
Who from the seat of mine own soul dost lower,—
Darkness itself, that doth the light devour,—
I feel thine urgency upon me laid
To voice despair! Thou shalt not be obeyed;
Thou art my master only for thine hour!

As some sad-eyed, wan woman that is slave
To the swart Moor, being bid her lute to bring,
Since song of her strange land her lord doth crave,
With lip a-tremble dares the scourge’s sting,
Refusing,—thy brute might so far I brave:
I will not sing what thou wouldst have me sing!