But what is this?
My hands will not obey my will; the cup—
How heavy it has grown, how it resists
My grasp! And see how now the wine itself,
Though lifted to my mouth, avoids the touch,
And flees my disappointed lips. Behold,
The table totters on the trembling floor;
The lights burn dim; the very air is thick,990
And, by the natural fires deserted, stands
All dull and lifeless 'twixt the day and night.