The Dead Soul

Oh! Where's the heart I once possessed,With fire poetic filled,With which my fervent youth was blessed,Ere disillusion chilled:Oh then what glorious visions cameMy spirit to delight!How did Life's pure aspiring flameBurn ever dear and bright!

How wondrous did all things seem,My soul how great its scope!I wandered in a blessed dream,Bathed in the light of hope;A Paradise I found where'erWere seen blue sky, green earth,An angel was each maiden fair;Fresh joys each hour had birth.

Rich in the alchemy of thoughtBase metal tamed to gold;Bright inspirations came unsought,Earth all its secrets told:I dwelt with saints and sages dead,And made their raptures mine;A luxury was common bread,And water was as wine.

Shakespeare my master was and friend,Shelley upon me smiled;Burns did his fiery spirit lendKeats ravished and beguiled:I heard the minstrels of all timeOne wondrous chorus singing,Whose dominant recurrent rhymeWith lore and joy was ringing,

Too glowing was the fire, or IUnworthy of its flame;And now I shiver, faint and die,Lost every noble aim:The glorious palace of my soulIs now a prison drear;Darkly I burrow like a mole,Ghostlike I linger here.

Oh! might the fire burn up once more!But oh! that hope how vain!The corse long dead to life restore,Bid roses bloom again!When once the summer-time is o'erWinter will have his reign,But my lost summer never moreShall I, like earth, regain.

The poet lives on love and hope,And they his muse inspire;When they have fled his soul is dead,And silent is his lyre;One burst of anguish and despairMay from his spirit come,Then he his grievous cross must bear,Heart-broken, soulless, dumb!

1902