 | Poems
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VII.
THE DRUNKARD'S SONNET.
List, friend, and I will tell you what I am
Since to deep draughts I have myself given o'er.
My coat, you see, is bare, and a sad qualm
Gripes in my purse and makes it retch full sore:
This eye, that once was pure as any star,
Is now a half-burnt coal; and this same face
That has no meaning in't, whose features are
Expression's grave, once mirror'd every grace:
The God-breathed soul that with a Heavenly light
Illumed this frame, is sear'd and scorch'd away:
All mind, all feeling, all impulsive might
Have stolen like vapour from this senseless clay.
Is not that all our Heaven that hath me left?
Is not this Hell—to know I am bereft?
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