Despair

Written February 1919

               O'er 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,

                 Damn'd demons of despair.

               Once, I think I half remember,

               Ere the grey skies of November

               Quench'd my youth's aspiring ember,

                 Liv'd there such a thing as bliss;

               Skies that now are dark were beaming,

               Bold and azure, splendid seeming

               Till I learn'd 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 petrel's 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.