Those iridescent phantasies of air,
Which mock the troubled breast in its despair;
Then waking, the delusive phantoms flown,
A prisoner upon a floor of stone.
My fare was still the captive's mouldy crust,
My chains still reeked with clotted gore and rust,
The rigid shackles still retained their clutch,
And clammy walls repulsed the friendly touch.
Day after day, besmeared with filth and slime,
In foul monotony I passed the time,