Throughout the echoing chambers¹ of my brain
I hear your words in mournful cadence² toll
Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul
Of sundering³ darkness.  Unrelenting, fain
To batter⁴ down resistance, fall again
Stroke after stroke, insistent⁵ diastole,
The bitter blows of truth, until the whole
Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.
Where shall I look for comfort?  Not to you.
Our worlds are drawn⁶ apart, our spirit's suns
Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.
Now in the haunted twilight⁷ I must do
Your will.  I grasp the cup which over-runs,
And with my trembling lips I touch the rim⁸.

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