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ariadne.
Still, still a sickening sense creeps o'er me. Still,
O Tethys, whose mad daughters, every one,
Clap their white hands above the waters dun,
My heart is like thy waves, that proudly fill
And roar, yet bound and break when all is done.
Speed, bitter droppings, to the bitter sea!
A1l worthiness is gone, all memory
Of truth, and nobleness, and charity!
And I, alone, and pressed by this great void,
Bend shameless to the earth with unalloyed
And boundless wretchedness. I am no more
Than a dull sbail left houseless on the shore.
Hide me, O pitying Gods! Ay, let me find
Some wind-wrung peak or cataract-gated cave,
Whose thunderous roof through the dread years shall bind
These throbs to silence!—This, O fearful Powers,
That send the black, inexplicable hours,
This, or the dear and all-forgetting grave!
O Tethys, whose mad daughters, every one,
Clap their white hands above the waters dun,
My heart is like thy waves, that proudly fill
And roar, yet bound and break when all is done.
Speed, bitter droppings, to the bitter sea!
A1l worthiness is gone, all memory
Of truth, and nobleness, and charity!
And I, alone, and pressed by this great void,
Bend shameless to the earth with unalloyed
And boundless wretchedness. I am no more
Than a dull sbail left houseless on the shore.
Hide me, O pitying Gods! Ay, let me find
Some wind-wrung peak or cataract-gated cave,
Whose thunderous roof through the dread years shall bind
These throbs to silence!—This, O fearful Powers,
That send the black, inexplicable hours,
This, or the dear and all-forgetting grave!
