Page:Carroll - Phantasmagoria and other poems (1869).djvu/159

Rh Till from my spirit's fevered eye, A hunted thing, I seemed to fly Through the dark woods that underlie Yon mountain-range of blue.

Deep in those woods I found a vale No sunlight visiteth, Nor star, nor wandering moonbeam pale; Where never comes the breath Of summer breeze—there in mine ear, Even as I lingered half in fear, I heard a whisper, cold and clear, 'This is the gate of Death.

'O bitter is it to abide In weariness alway; At dawn to sigh for eventide, At eventide for day.