Despair (Lovecraft)

O'er the midnight moorlands crying,Thro' the cypress forests sighing,In the night-wind madly flying,Hellish forms with streaming hair;In the barren branches creaking,By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking,Damn'd demons of despair.

Once, I think I half remember,Ere the grey skies of NovemberQuench'd my youth's aspiring ember,Liv'd there such a thing as bliss;Skies that now are dark were beaming,Bold and azure, splendid seemingTill I learn'd it all was dreaming --Deadly drowsiness of Dis.

But the stream of Time, swift flowing,Brings the torment of half-knowing --Dimly rushing, blindly goingPast the never-trodden lea;And the voyager, repining,Sees the wicked death-fires shining,Hears the wicked petrel's whiningAs he helpless drifts to sea.

Evil wings in ether beating;Vultures at the spirit eating;Things unseen forever fleetingBlack against the leering sky.Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,Clawing fiends of future sadness,Mingle in a cloud of madnessEver on the soul to lie.

Thus the living, lone and sobbing,In the throes of anguish throbbing,With the loathsome Furies robbingNight and noon of peace and rest.But beyond the groans and gratingOf abhorrent Life, is waitingSweet Oblivion, culminatingAll the years of fruitless quest.