Thou Shalt Not Kill a Certain Evening

I had grown weary of him; of his breathAnd hands and features I was sick to death.Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread;I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.And he must with his blank face fill my life -Then my brain blackened; and I snatched a knife.

But ere I struck, my soul's grey deserts throughA voice cried, 'Know at least what thing you do.''This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul,What this thing is? somewhere where seasons rollThere is some living thing for whom this manIs as seven heavens girt into a span,For some one soul you take the world away -Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!'

Then I cast down the knife upon the groundAnd saw that mean man for one moment crowned.I turned and laughed: for there was no one by -The man that I had sought to slay was I.