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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519127" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Doom Of The Esquire Bedell</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Adown the torturing mile of street <br>I mark him come and go, <br>Thread in and out with tireless feet <br>The crossings to and fro; <br>A soul that treads without retreat <br>A labyrinth of woe.<br>Palsied with awe of such despair, <br>All living things give room, <br>They flit before his sightless glare <br>As horrid shapes, that loom <br>And shriek the curse that bids him bear <br>The symbol of his doom.<br>The very stones are coals that bake <br>And scorch his fevered skin; <br>A fire no hissing hail may slake <br>Consumes his heart within. <br>Still must he hasten on to rake <br>The furnace of his sin.<br>Still forward! forward! For he feels <br>Fierce claws that pluck his breast, <br>And blindly beckon as he reels <br>Upon his awful quest: <br>For there is that behind his heels <br>Knows neither ruth nor rest.<br>The fiends in hell have flung the dice; <br>The destinies depend <br>On feet that run for fearful price, <br>And fangs that gape to rend; <br>And still the footsteps of his Vice <br>Pursue him to the end:— <br>The feet of his incarnate Vice <br>Shall dog him to the end.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sir+Arthur+Quiller-Couch">Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=519127" data-title="The Doom Of The Esquire Bedell de Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch" data-description="Adown the torturing mile of street 
I mark him come and go, 
Thread in and out with tireless feet 
The crossings to and fro; 
A soul that treads without retreat 
A labyrinth of woe.
Palsied with awe of such despair, 
All living things give room, 
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