I have outwatched the Lesser Wain, and seen

The remnant stars grow pale; but the used night

Has to the thought that used it sterile been,

Nor lost that use by pressure of delight.

My fixed, impatient thought no reason read;

What I scarce read my unthought thought made stray;

My soul between the living and the dead

Was a blown vapour, without place or way.

What the morn brought or took I cannot tell,

That had no use to bring or use to find.

All night I lay under the barren spell.

The day cannot dispel what the void wind

Ruinous built in the shorn night: its glow

Can but the night's made desert brightly show.