Page:The city of dreadful night - and other poems (IA cityofdreadfulni00thomrich).pdf/21

 The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain Of thought and consciousness which never ceases, Or which some moments' stupor but increases, This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane.

They leave all hope behind who enter there: One certitude while sane they cannot leave, One anodyne for torture and despair; The certitude of Death, which no reprieve Can put off long; and which, divinely tender, But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave.

Because he seemed to walk with an intent I followed him; who, shadowlike and frail, Unswervingly though slowly onward went, Regardless, wrapt in thought as in a veil: