True murder's course runs never smooth.

No naked hand, no one machine,

Renders with single sudden blow

The outrageous consummation clean.

If the hundredth stroke should reach a heart,

Delay has soiled the deed with time.

The assassins quarrel in the dark,

Baffled, impatient for the crime.

And man himself, whose soul they hate,

Obstructs true murders narrow course,

Not by indifference to that death,

Not so much matching force with force,

As being armored in with pride.

They thrust, and wait. There comes a day.

Hope rests. heart tires. Soul walks alone.

True murder will find out the way.