The Soul of Osiris

THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 49 It hath no shape ; and I have no escape ! It wraps around me, as a mist, despair. Fear without sense and horror without shape Most surely there ! O melancholy ! charming child of folly, Where is thy comfort told without a word ? Where are thy plumes, beloved melancholy, Familiar bird ? O emerald star, deep beauty’s avatar, Are thy skies dim ? What throne is thine above ? Where is the crown of thee—thy sevenfold star, My heart of love ? Then from the clinging mist there came a singing, A dirge re-echoes to the poet prayer : “ I am their child to whom thy soul is clinging, I am Despair ! ”