Mocking me with her outstretched hands;
And oft her icy fingers press
My hot brow through the long, long night;
And voices as of deep distress,
Like prisoned wind, whose wailing sound
Seems madly struggling under ground,
Peal dirge-like on my ear: away!
Nor wait, oh! horrid shape, for day
Such as these gloomy realms display—
E’er thou shalt quit my tortured sight.—