Despondency.

Not all the bravery that day puts on Of gold and azure, ardent or austere, Shall ease my soul of sorrow; grown more dear Than all the joy that heavenly hope may don. Far up the skies the rumor of the dawn May run, and eve like some wild torch appear; These shall not change the darkness, gathered here, Of thought, that rusts like an old sword undrawn. Oh, for a place deep-sunken from the sun! A wildwood cave of primitive rocks and moss! Where Sleep and Silence—breast to married breast— Lie with their child, night-eyed Oblivion; Where, freed from all the trouble of my cross, I might forget, I might forget, and rest!