Spleen

When low and heavy sky weighs like a lid Upon the spirit moaning in ennui, And when, spanning the circle of the world, It pours a black day sadder than our nights; When earth is changed into a sweaty cell, In which Hope, captured, like a frantic bat, Batters the walls with her enfeebled wing, Striking her head against the rotting beams; When steady rain trailing its giant train Descends on us like heavy prison bars, And when a silent multitude of spiders Spins its disgusting threads deep in our brains, Bells all at once jump out with all their force, And hurl about a mad cacophony As if they were those lost and homeless souls Who send a dogged whining to the skies. And long corteges minus drum or tone Deploy morosely through my being: Hope The conquered, moans, and tyrant Anguish gloats In my bowed skull he fixed his black flag.