Eat with their burning cold into my bones.
  Heaven’s wingèd hound, polluting from thy lips
  His beak in poison not his own, tears up
  My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by,
  The ghastly people of the realm of dream,
  Mocking me: and the Earthquake-fiends are charged
  To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds
  When the rocks split and close again behind:
  While from their loud abysses howling throng
  The genii of the storm, urging the rage
  Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail.
  And yet to me welcome is day and night,
  Whether one breaks the hoar-frost of the morn,
  Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs
  The leaden-colored east; for then they lead
  The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom
  —As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim—
  Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood
  From these pale feet, which then might trample thee
  If they disdained not such a prostrate slave.
  Disdain! Ah, no! I pity thee. What ruin
  Will hunt thee undefended thro’ the wide Heaven!
  How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror,
  Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief,