What gems chill glitter yon, thrice dipt

in dusky Styx, or tears unshed

the spheres, in icy exile stript,

congeal in midnight’s gaze of lead?

O thou crown’d caitiff, o’er our head

whereon thine agelong wounds have dript

the dark arms of thy passion spread

dwarf the vast vault to a hard crypt.

Round thine eternal hour of woe

the abyss urges, a rigid throe,

whose woeful dark sees nought emerge,

save these, their consolation vain

and frozen on the helpless verge,

lonely, ecstatic fires of pain.