University of Virginia Library

Whose was the fault? How entered in
The dream of sloth—the sleep of sin—
The lethargy of self? O Christ!
Could no mere anguish have sufficed?
No less tremendous doom than this
Death of the heart to pain or bliss?
What curse fell on me as I woke
When the accusing thunder broke,
With scourge of lightning and of hail
Making the shattered woods to quail?
What curse more than the curse of Cain,
When I found my lily slain—
Withered and blasted on her stem,
Her angel-tended diadem
Pashed by the dint of pitiless hail?
O God, that then my heart should fail!
That I should rend my breast in vain!
That no sweet blood-drop should remain—
No wholesome drop in all my heart
That was not frozen!

Where's the art
That my blood can uncongeal?
Where is the pain can make me feel?
My tears are frozen at their source,
No drop of life renewed can course
Through all my numb and pulseless limbs;
The dull cloud of my breathing dims
The cruel firmament of ice
Moving between me and the skies,
Wherein my white reflected face
Scowls me from love, shuts me from grace,
From which my prayers rebound like hail;
Where'er I gaze nature turns pale,
Where'er I move there falls a blight
Of frost on all things. Day and night
My melancholy footsteps sound—
They clank upon the frozen ground;
They echo through the dismal glades,
Where, as I move, the charm invades;
They ice with horror every tree,
The stark leaves tinkle shudderingly;
They freeze the joy in every throat,
They curdle every gleeful note;
Into the stiff and quaking grass
Down drop the birds—slain, as I pass,
Pacing this desolate wood.

How long,
O Lord! how long must I endure
This my sole hell? Is there no cure?
No keen Promethean flame of pain
That can make me live again?
Sometimes a blessed pang will start
Suddenly out from my heart,
Sometimes the firmament of ice
Between me and the sunny skies,
Leaving its horrible repose,
Will heave and stir with wondrous throes,
Wherein my figure seems to shine
Transfigured in a light divine
Of spiritual sunshine. O then,
Methinks I almost feel again
The pulse of Spring! I am not mad—
I ask no longer to be glad;
I crave to feel but human woe
Setting my blood and tears aflow,—
But blessed anguish of remorse,
That I may be no more a corse
Walking the world. Grant Lord but this!
Let memories of lapséd bliss
With quickening sorrow thrill me through,
With flame of pain my soul endue
As with a garment; fuse my frost
With tingling shame for senses lost,
That stings like purgatorial fire:
This is the end of my desire.

Pass on your way, ye living men!
I wait some dawn of change. Till then
Pity me in your silent thought,
But with your comfort vex me not.