XXIII.
THE CURSE OF THOUGHT.
1
Why, why do I pine,
When the glories divine
Of the sky-painted earth are around me?
Oh! why do I grieve,
When so many hearts weave
About me their meshes of kindness?
Why to me is all vision but blindness?
Oh! why doth the balm
Of retirement and calm
Not heal, as 'tis wont; but still deeplier wound me?
2
'Tis the demon within,
More of doubt, than of sin,
That racks my gall'd spirit with brooding dismay!
I think on the past—
'Tis gone like the blast,
That dies, but leaves shipwreck and terror behind:
The present is blank as the eye that is blind;
And the future's a dream
That all shadow doth seem—
A fathomless deep, without haven or bay!
