So pent that, striving every way,
You may not stir the coffin-lid;
And well you know that, if you did,
Darkness would come and not the day.
Darkness! With you 'tis ever dark;
No joy of skyward-mounting lark
Or blue of swallow on the wing
Can penetrate and comfort bring
You, where you lie all cramp'd and stark.
Deep sunk beneath the secret mould,