O Dreariness around me, I must weep!
Would that my very soul were tears to steep
The wind with, that, at every breath,
With weeping, I might spend my soul so fast
My agony’s last throb would soon be past.
O Desolation, wild, and gaunt, and grim!
O hopeless absence of all glad and bright!
O horrid shapes fantastical, what hymn
Of mine, alas! can tell such shapes aright
Would ye but strike me mad,