This page has been validated.
151
IV.
The evil birds which I have fed so long
In the foul mansion of my sinful soul,
Now with their pinions, horrible and strong,
They battle with me for their usual dole.
Hungrily barking, a discordant song,
They hang upon the outlets of my mind,
Or on the roof sit patiently and long,
Heavy as autumn clouds, the loathsome kind.
Lord, give me air and light! I pant for breath!
And Thy sweet residence, once warm and bright,
Is close, confined, and small, and full of night;
It is clay-cold and damp—it smells of death!
Yet Thou art there!—and where Thou deignest to be,
My blessed Lord, is good enough for me.
