Such purposeless and iron wings
Obscure our mortal music quite?
Such gloom to monstrous gloom outflings
The stenches of a churchyard night?
We are no more for God or Sin
Than parasites in rotting hair,
No different but only in
The boundlessness of our despair?
Glories have sprung before our gaze
From the wet wood the grey tide warps!
We have heard peals of music blaze
Sheer from the cold heart of a corpse!