And not found Truth.  So he would be a saint 
Whose skeleton lies here because his soul did faint ! 
 
I will not turn toward Sodom any more, 
Lest its ripe glades of fruit waft up their scent, 
And draw me to them, what time heavens pour 
Brimstone and fire from out the firmament, 
And all my substance in its fall be spent ; 
Lest I lie there beneath a barren sea 
Forgotten of high God, until there went 
The final trumpet of the dead, who flee 
Vainly that fearful blast of judgment.  Woe is Me ! 
 
My feet, in spite of me, in circles bend ; 
I meet my own tracks often, all in vain 
I seek some tower or cliff to make an end, 
I find no object on the distant plain ; 
Misty distortions crowd upon my brain, 
And spectre fountains gurgle on the ground ; 
I drop to drink, and hear the horrid strain 
Of chuckling devils, that grimace around, 
And think I catch the note of Hell’s three-headed 
Hound. 
 
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