I wake and feel the fell of dark， not day.
What hours， O what black hours we have spent
This night！ what sights you， heart， saw； ways you went！
And more must， in yet longer light's delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years， mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless， cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas！ away.
I am gall， I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste： my taste was me；
Bones built in me， flesh filled， blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this， and their scourge to be
As I am mine， their sweating selves， but worse.