GREAT Pascal had his pit always in sight. All is abysmal—deed, desire, or dream Or speech! Full often over me doth scream The wind of Fear and blows my hair upright. By the lone strand, thro' silence, depth and height, And shoreless space that doth with terrors teem ... On my black nights God's finger like a beam Traces his swarming torments infinite. Sleep is a monstrous hole that I do dread, Full of vague horror, leading none knows where; All windows open on infinity, So that my dizzy spirit in despair Longs for the torpor of the unfeeling dead. Ah! from Time's menace never to win free! |