Let thy chief terror be of thine own soul: There, ’mid the throng of hurrying desires That trample on the dead to seize their spoil, Lurks vengeance, footless, irresistible As exhalations laden with slow death, And o’er the fairest troop of captured joys Breathes pallid pestilence. BOOK I.—THE SPOILED CHILD „ II.—MEETING STREAMS „ III.—MAIDENS CHOOSING „ IV.—GWENDOLEN GETS HER CHOICE „ V.—MORDECAI „ VI.—REVELATIONS „ VII.—THE MOTHER AND THE SON „ VIII.—FRUIT AND SEED…
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