Through Foulest Fogs

Through foulest fogs of my own sluggish soul, Through midnight glooms of all the wide world's guilt, Through sulphurous cannon-clouds that surge and roll Above the steam of blood in anger spilt; Through all the sombre earth-oppressing piles Of old cathedral temples which expand Sepulchral vaults and monumental aisles, Hopeless and freezing in the lifeful land; I gaze and seek with ever-longing eyes For God, the Love-Supreme, all-wise, all-good: Alas! in vain; for over all the skies A dark and awful shadow seems to brood, A numbing, infinite, eternal gloom: I tremble in the consciousness of Doom.