Thy wings swoop darkening round my soul, Despair! 
And on my brain thy shadow seems to brood 
And hem me round with stifling solitude, 
With chasms of vacuous bloom which are thy lair. 
No light of human joy, no song or prayer, 
Breaks ever on this chaos, all imbrued 
With heart's-blood trickling from the multitude 
Of sweet hopes slain, or agonising there. 

Lo, wilt thou yield thyself to grief, and roll 
Vanquished from thy high seat, imperial brain, 
And abdicating turbulent life's control, 
Be dragged a captive bound in sorrow's chain? 
Nay! though my heart is breaking with its pain, 
No pain on earth has power to crush my soul.