• The tragedies of ancients
    Came to me one foggy evening,
    Over stone and over stream,
    Through the misty forests,
    Cloaked in wool,
    To tap upon my window pane.

    Awoken from my slumber was I
    By a frozen hand gently rapping,
    Rapping, rapping on my window pane.
    I stood, and the cold enveloped me
    In a blanket of bitterness
    And wrapped me in its icy arms.

    "The hour is late,"
    I protested to black, uncaring eyes,
    But to the sky we took--
    The wind lashing at me--
    And travelled to a place where
    No shadows fall and no stars shine.

    What is this if not my destruction?
    The darkness screaming,
    Tearing at my heart,
    Burning in my mind,
    My wounds ever deepening,
    My suffering forever.

    How chilled the hand of sorrow is,
    How cruel the sullen wings of death.
    This I never wanted.
    For this I never asked.
    This I've always feared,
    A smiling fool terrified of the is to be.

    Asleep or astir, I know not which.
    I'm hurt,
    But no one can see me bleeding,
    So I must be fine.
    But if I'm fine,
    Then why do I want to die?