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Bad Conscience
Were life but a dream, can death be, then, awakening?
Time’s sea hath been twice eight years
Since I was born to suffer each
Of its ebb and flow, combating, lest
The faery land be for aye out of my ken.
All beauty and glory are gone: the dull brain
And the abandoned breast being not mine;
Now too late for filmy-eyed repentance,
Too, too late for those antique rocky vows;
Now I lament, droop-headed, o’er another self of yore, —
A child’s beloved corse watched by a father.
Regret, or almost Remorse,
Wheresoe’er I conch, cometh around me
Like the ghost of a betrayed comrade dead,
Telling in voice plaintive and deep
His misery of grievance; disturbing
The darkness of tacit midnight;
Anguished, I turn my consciousness
Into a shield, behind which I will stay,
But my consciousness suffers still.
My thought aches, and my ambition blinds;
’Tis upon no land must I worship the sapphire Heaven;
’Tis from no height will I e’er woo Aurora’s beam.
O the wildest one, ’tis now in the secluded smoke
Of some piny mountain, where, in a wintry shroud,
An orphan owlet cries on the pale purple eve,
And to the Eternity forlorn each north-wind yields his sighs.
I faint! I sink! I die!
Poesy! God of Far-away!
Thou, knight-in- arms, seest me,
That from the tower of guilt I will flee,
And with thee, float far, far away
Athwart that ocean of Time unfathomable,
For I breathe like the air thine Apollonian vision’
For I feed deep, deep upon thine eyes divine
As aliment mine;
For to me the lakeside’s emerald willow
Is far surpassed by the lofty sway of thy frame,
For beneath thy heavenly paradise,
How true, how sweet the angels dwelling.
And icy must be mine eye, and tears, and throat,
When, my dearest one, Poesy! thou turnst cold on me!
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