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Despair (c. 19 February 1919)
Oer the midnight moorlands crying,
Thro the cypress forests sighing,
In the night-wind madly flying,
Hellish forms with streaming hair;
In the barren branches creaking,
By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,
Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking;
Damnd daemons of despair.
Once, I think I half remember,
Ere the grey skies of November
Quenchd my youths aspiring ember,
Livd there such a thing as bliss;
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Gold and azure, splendid seeming
Till I learnd it all was dreaming
Deadly drowsiness of Dis.
But the stream of Time, swift flowing,
Brings the torment of half-knowing
Dimly rushing, blindly going
Past the never-trodden lea;
And the voyager, repining,
Sees the wicked death-fires shining,
Hears the wicked petrels whining
As he helpless drifts to sea.
Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.
Thus the living, lone and sobbing,
In the throes of anguish throbbing,
With the loathsome Furies robbing
Night and noon of peace and rest.
But beyond the groans and grating
Of abhorrent Life, is waiting
Sweet Oblivion, culminating
All the years of fruitless quest.
