TOWARDS THE END

To‑day I sought to write, and found I had

With expectation my worn mind abused,

Yet deemed I not so choked and so confused

My thoughts already should be. I grow mad.

Bare of ideas, lame in my o'er‑used

Uselessly tired reason, feeling bad

Before the light sun, I stand lone and sad,

Friendship and kinship by mankind refused.

I labour but to think. I cannot think.

My thinking raves or sickens into dream

As I of some deep‑witched brew did drink.

That did strange horrors in my soul reveal.

A storm approaches. All grows dark. I feel

My reason leave me like a last sunbeam.