On my dark cell no ray of hope
Hath shone, no sunbeam e’er hath risen;
For nothing but the churchyard’s vault
Shall I exchange this fatal prison.
Perchance I long ago did die,
Perchance the phantasies which nightly
Hold in my brain their shifting dance
Are nought but ghostly forms unsightly.
They may full well the spectres be
Of some old heathen gods or devils;
They gladly choose the empty skull
Of a dead poet for their revels.
Those orgies sweet but terrible,
Those nightly ghost-acts, full of warning,
The poet’s corpse-hand ofttimes seeks
To place on record in the morning.
IV.
Once saw I many a blooming flower
Upon my way, but slothfully
Stoop’d not to pluck them in that hour,
And on my proud steed hasten’d by.
Now when I’m near to death, and languish,
Now when beneath me yawns the tomb,
Oft in my thought, with bitter anguish,
Returns the’ unheeded flowers’ perfume.
But most of all, my brain is burning
With a bright yellow violet fair;
Wild beauty! How I grieve with yearning,
To think that I enjoy’d thee ne’er!
My comfort is: Oblivion’s waters
Have not yet lost their olden might
The dull hearts of earth’s sons and daughters
To steep in Lethe’s blissful night.