And in that thankless shape 
Vines grow without a grape, 
Thorns roseless spring. 
Nay !  There is no escape :— 
The yawning portals gape, 
The orbéd ring 
As by a whirlpool drawn 
Into that devil-dawn :— 
I sink and shriek and fawn 
Upon the thing. 
 
 
 
           
 
 
The Editor regrets that he is unable to publish 
this verse. 
 
 
           
 
 
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