Imprisoned in the soul and in the sin,
Imprisoned in the body and the pain,
The accustomed hateful memories within,
Without the accustomed limbs that ache again:—
Alas! a melancholy peace to win
With all their notes the nightingales complain,
And I such music as is mine begin,
Awake for nothing, and alive in vain.
I find few words and falter; then in scorn
My lips are silent; uncreate, unborn,
Evanishes the visionary lay;
While from clear air upon my soul forlorn
Falls thro' the heedless splendour of the morn
A sadness as the sadness of to-day.