Page:Carroll - Phantasmagoria and other poems (1869).djvu/158

146 But bitter memory will not die: It haunts my soul when none is nigh: I hear its whisper in the sigh Of that complaining wind.

And now in death my soul is fain To tell the tale of fear That secret in my breast hath lain Through many a weary year: Yet time would fail to utter all— The evil spells that held me thrall, And thrust my life from fall to fall, Thou needest not to hear.

The spells that bound me with a chain Sin's stern behests to do, Till Pleasure's self, invoked in vain, A heavy burden grew—