Mother whose hair I grasp, whose bosom I tread,
Thy son adopted. Thou who dost so charm me
And in thy lappels of affection warm me,
Heap all thine other misery on my head;
Madness alone of evils do I dread,
Against its imminent presence guard and arm me,
Suffer its broad flung shadow not to harm me
But plunge me rather with the naked dead.
Yet if it must come, let it be entire;
Cast then upon me unillumined night,
One whole eclipse not knowing any fire
To give it record of the former light.
Complete destruction of the heart's desire,
A ruin of thought and audience and sight.