Wandering aimlessly everywhere,
Upstairs and downstairs, from room into room,
Searching for nothing—for nothing is there,
Only the changeless impregnable gloom.
Stifled within, the cool gardens I seek;—
Like poor human souls the flowers all die;
Even the birds are refusing to speak,
Crush'd by the weight of a leaden-gray sky.
Is this the whole of it? is this the end?
Life finish'd off by a heartless Amen?