Vomits their phantom from the burial-place.
Such is thy history, O my soul, from birth;
Dark pages with decaying odors rife,
A maze of treachery, and pain, and dearth.
Yet ’tis the story of a vulgar life;
No title casts a glamour o’er its woes,
No footlights gild its unromantic strife.
Across the web the flying shuttle goes,
Weaving with common threads a homely plot,
Yet dark and sinister the pattern shows.