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often i long that i may cease to be
trapp’d in a mind that melancholy shaped
as one glutted by proserpinal seed
the weight of darkness cannot be escaped
for when sometime i find a trace of light
yet still some nyctian thought within me burns
and soon quixotic comfort fades from sight
inevitably hopelessness returns
and when that melancholic fit shall fall
sudden from heaven, like a weeping cloud
i shall not flee from pain’s stygían pall
but sink deep, deep into her deathly shroud
though respite brief may come of pretty lies
the truth of suffering ever survives

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