Classic Poem

I had grown weary of him; of his breath
And 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 through
A 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 roll
" There is some living thing for whom this man
" Is 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 ground
And 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.