They have darkened my soul, they have furrowed my brow,
But my manhood no more to that sceptre shall bow!
Thou wast won by the perishing glitter of gold,
From my heart to the arms of another wast sold,
Who hath cast thee away as a scorn, as a weed,
On the love of a world that hath doomed thee to bleed.
Like a palace whose feasting and music are ended,
Whose lights to the dim gulf of death are descended,
Whose footfalls are silent, whose arches lie strown,
Where the cold wind of night makes a desolate moan,