AN ILL DREAM. 
 
IN the grim woods when all the bare black 
branches 
Creak out their curses like a gallows-tree, 
When the miasmal pestilence-light dances, 
A spectre-flame, through midnight’s infamy. 
My blood grows chill and stagnant with my shame. 
O Love, to speak thy name ! 
 
O Life !  O Heaven !  O dreams long dead !  Ye 
Spirits 
Rising unbidden from Hope’s cobwebbed door, 
Ye quick desires that every soul inherits, 
Leave me to weep, and torture me no more ! 
My face grows grey with sheer despair ;  I shrink 
From dreams ;  I dare not think. 
 
I had a poet’s dreams.  My soul was yearning 
To grasp the firmament and hold it fast, 
 
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