There was no thing alive save only I
That held life in contempt and longed to die.
And still I writhed and moaned, “The curse, the curse,
Than animated death, can death be worse?”
“Dark child of sorrow, mine no less, what art
Of mine can make thee see and play thy part?
The key to all strange things is in thy heart.”
What voice was this that coursed like liquid fire
Along my flesh, and turned my hair to wire?
I raised my burning eyes, beheld a field