V.
It is a weary and a bitter task
Back from the lip the burning word to keep,
And to shut out heaven’s air with falsehood’s mask,
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap
Indignant feelings—making e’en of thought
A buried treasure, which may but be sought
When shadows are abroad—and night—and sleep.
I might not brook it long—and thus was thrown
Into that grave-like cell, to wither there alone.