LXXXIX.
“For my sick soul is darken’d unto death,
With shadows from the suffering it hath seen;
The strong foundations of mine ancient faith
Sink from beneath me—whereon shall I lean?
Oh! if from thy pure lips was wrung the sigh
Of the dust’s anguish! if like man to die—
And earth round him shuts heavily—hath been
Even to Thee bitter, aid me! guide me! turn
My wild and wandering thoughts back from their starless bourne!”