Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/61

Rh We pass our endless hours, insatiate. Only our hair in youth's abundance grows, And turns a torture to the aching brain, Crisping and curling on our ashen brows, Pale forehead scor'd with Passions hieroglyph, Over our beauty's ruin, tired eyes, Sunk cheek, and writhen lips of a fever'd mouth, That ever laughs, but smiles not ever, at all. O agony of fix'd unclosing lids Under the blasting cressets above that flare, Reverberate from the slabb'd asphaltum way, No respite ever of dew, of dawn, of tears! No light wind stirs, no spring-time wakes again, But swooning scents make faint the icy air Where spiring incense fumes unceasingly.

Come, I grow home-sick for the harmony Of our Eternal holiday in Hell. I hear the echo of our revelry!