Ill days and dolorous nights and years accurst—
The increase of evil, that is twin to life;
Weariness of re-animated strife,
And love, renewing with the selfsame thirst
The same delight—a drunken Tantalus;
And the thousand-chorded monotones of pain
Irresolubly played and played again
On broken souls and bodies ruinous.

I would the world and all its leaden woe,
Its ennui, like incumbent tombs of stone,
And time's each minute, as an iron clod,
Were bound about the monstrous throat of God,
And He were drawn in deathless overthrow
To some blind nadir of the voids unknown.