I, shut behind this pane from foreign rain,

Am drownèd in my eyes’ own struggling tears,

No single one of which’s not drenched in pain—

And none of which roll down my face. My fears

Emerge into this light which I disdain;

My frightened pleas must not reach others’ ears—

Born as a secret, that it must remain.

And masks wear I, for sadness floods my cheers.

In incoherence, then, I make this prayer

To gods unknown and undiscovered creeds:

Let there be light where darkness makes its bed,

Let there be blood where pain has made its lair,

Let there be wings for all backbroken steeds—

let there be death when love has finally fled.


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