I
Lonely, o life, art thou when circumstance
Occult or open keeps us twain apart!
Lamenting through the dreary day there dance
Anaemic thoughts; the bruised and bloodless heart
Beats as if tired of life, as I am tired
Who all these days have never seen your face,
Nor touched the body that my soul desired,
Nor have inhaled the perfume of the place
That you make sweet—black dogs of doubt and fear
Howl at my heels while care plies whip and spur,
Driving me down to the dull damned dead sphere
Where is no sight or sounds or scent of Her
Our Lady Dian, but where hag and witch
Hecat bestrides her broom—the bestial bitch!
Occult or open keeps us twain apart!
Lamenting through the dreary day there dance
Anaemic thoughts; the bruised and bloodless heart
Beats as if tired of life, as I am tired
Who all these days have never seen your face,
Nor touched the body that my soul desired,
Nor have inhaled the perfume of the place
That you make sweet—black dogs of doubt and fear
Howl at my heels while care plies whip and spur,
Driving me down to the dull damned dead sphere
Where is no sight or sounds or scent of Her
Our Lady Dian, but where hag and witch
Hecat bestrides her broom—the bestial bitch!
— 35 —
