I

What ails the solitude? Is this the Judgment Day? The sky is red as blood; The very rocks decay

And crack and crumble, and There is a flame of wind Wherewith the burning sand Is ever mass’d and thin’d.

Even the sickly Sun Is dimmèd by the dearth, And screaming dead leaves run About the desolate earth.

Die then; we are accurst! And strike, consuming God! The very tigers thirst Too much to drink of blood;

The eagle soareth not; The viper bites herself; The vulture hath forgot To rend the dying wolf.

The world is white with heat; The world is rent and riv’n; The world and heavens meet; The lost stars cry in heav’n.

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