XXXIX

He hath awakened from the dream of life—

      'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep

      With phantoms an unprofitable strife,

      And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife

      Invulnerable nothings.—We decay

      Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief

      Convulse us and consume us day by day,

And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.