“What! are th’ infernal powers moved for me,
     That all the hosts of hell me welcome give,
     And claim me comrade in their revelry? 
     Abhorrent things, I am not yours, I live,
     I know I live because I think on death! 
     I live, dead things, to revel among tombs,
     A ghoul, henceforth I feast on buried joys,
     My soul the burial-place, where lie, beneath
     A fearful night of cries and hellish spumes,
     My lovely youth with jovial convoys,
     Hopes, happy-eyed, and linked solaces,
     And in the lapse of hateful years they will—­
     My guileless joys, my rose-hued memories—­
     Corrupt and rot and turn to venomed ill.

     O cherished dreams of Truth!  O sacred bond
     Unlovely grown!  O faith so mutable! 
     Shades of my fathers, not august but fond! 
     How hollow were the darlings of my dream! 
     But she, O Lotus-flower, my promised bride,
     Star of my youth, my pure unspotted dove! 
     Again I see her in her gentle pride,
     Her starry eyes meet mine with melting beam;
     Unsightly grief approach not near my Love,
     Flee from her presence, O thou gaunt Despair,
     Good Time, embalm her daintily and fair,
     Link her sweet fame with hymns and fragrancy. 
     And happy stars, and blissful utterance,
     And with all transports that immortal be. 
     Fold her, good Time, from my remembrance,
     O, this is bitterest mortality,
     That living heart of love should be the urn
     Where lie the ashes of our joys that turn
     To bitterness, and all our lives o’erflow
     Till dearest love be grown a hateful woe;
     My sun of youth has set, methinks it should
     Have set with such a splendour as had all
     My sober days with mellow light imbued;
     O bitter sun of youth whose knavish pledge
     Of high-born hope and holy privilege
     But led me undefended to my fall,
     O lamentable day when I was born! 
     What shapes are those that mock me with their scorn? 
     What trumpet-call is this within my breast? 
     I am grown wise, my senses are increased,
     It is the breath of fiends that drowns my speech,
     The bellowing of devils as they feast. 
     I am the taunt of devils, and they preach
     Of death, of cursing, and of endless woe;
     The lightnings of this devil-tempest show
     Horrors not dreamed of

* * * * *

                       O thou Vengeful Power,

I am forspent, if merit there can be
In self accusing, in this darkest hour
O hear me, and I pray thee pity me,
For I have sinned, O fool, unwise and blind! 
And I am Atma; whom thou hadst designed
For life of sanctity and holy quest. 
Lord, I am Atma, and I have transgressed;
I sought the Present whom we may not seek,