You come from hells of ice-cold clay     

       So pent that, striving every way,     

       You may not stir the coffin-lid;     

       And well you know that, if you did,     

       Darkness would come and not the day.     

  

       Darkness! With you 'tis ever dark;     

       No joy of skyward-mounting lark     

       Or blue of swallow on the wing     

       Can penetrate and comfort bring     

       You, where you lie all cramp'd and stark.     

  

       Deep sunk beneath the secret mould,     

       You hear the worm his length unfold     

       And slime across your frail roof-plank,     

       And tap, and vanish, like the rank     

       Foul memory of a sin untold.     

  

       And this your penance in the tomb:     

       To weave upon the mind's swift loom     

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