A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness-- 
Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness; 
A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence; 
A sense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone exsistence; 
A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken-- 
Such hurt perchance as Nature feels wen a blossomed bough is broken.