IMPRISONED in the soul and in the sin, Imprisoned in the body and the pain, The accustomed hateful memories within, Without the accustomed limbs that ache again:— Alas! a melancholy peace to win With all their notes the nightingales complain, And I such music as is mine begin, Awake for nothing, and alive in vain. I find few words and falter; then in scorn My lips are silent; uncreate, unborn, Evanishes the visionary lay; While from clear air upon my soul forlorn Falls thro' the heedless splendour of the morn A sadness as the sadness of to-day. |