Une Saison En Enfer

What are his nets, and gins and traps; and how does he surround me
 With cold floods of abstraction, and with forests of solitude,
 To build him castles and high spires, where kings and priests may dwell;
 Till she who burns with youth and knows no fixed lot is bound,
 In a spell of law to one she loathes?
 And must she drag the chain
 Of life in weary lust? Must chilling, murderous thoughts obscure
 The clear heaven of her eternal spring; to bear the wintry rage
 Of a harsh terror driv'n to madness, bound to hold a rod
 Over her shrinking shoulders all the day, and all the night
 To turn the wheel of false desire, and longings that wake her womb
 To the abhorred birth of cherubs in the human form,
 That live a pestilence an die a meteor, and are no more;
 Till the child dwell with one he hates, and do the deed he loathes,
 And the impure scourge forge his seed into its unripe birth,
 Ere yet his eyelids can behold the arrows of the day?