HOW slowly time is crawling on, That serpent terrible and creeping! While I, alas! all-motionless, On the same spot am ever weeping. On my dark cell no ray of hope Hath shone, no sunbeam e'er hath risen; For nothing but the churchyard's vault Shall I exchange this fatal prison. Perchance I long ago did die, Perchance the phantasies which nightly Hold in my brain their shifting dance Are nought but ghostly forms unsightly. They may full well the spectres be Of some old heathen gods or devils; They gladly choose the empty skull Of a dead poet for their revels. Those orgies sweet but terrible, Those nightly ghost-acts, full of warning, The poet's corpse-hand ofttimes seeks To place on record in the morning. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PICCADILLY CIRCUS AT NIGHT: STREETWALKERS by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION by WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY THE HAPPY NIGHTINGALE by PHILIP AYRES SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 38. THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |