Morgan LeFey's blog: "Literary Gothic"

Revolving in oval loops of solar speed, Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes, Dead men render love and war no heed, Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe. No spiritual Caesars are these dead; They want no proud paternal kingdom come; And when at last they blunder into bed World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion. Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep, These bone shanks will not wake immaculate To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day : They loll forever in colossal sleep; Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them up From their fond, final, infamous decay.

Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances. God's lioness, How one we grow, Pivot of heels and knees! -- The furrow Splits and passes, sister to The brown arc Of the neck I cannot catch, Nigger-eye Berries cast dark Hooks ---- Black sweet blood mouthfuls, Shadows. Something else Hauls me through air ---- Thighs, hair; Flakes from my heels. White Godiva, I unpeel ---- Dead hands, dead stringencies. And now I Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas. The child's cry Melts in the wall. And I Am the arrow, The dew that flies, Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red Eye, the cauldron of morning.

BY a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule — From a wild weird clime, that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE — out of TIME. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titian woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over ; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore ; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead, — Their still waters, still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule. By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead, — Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily, — By the mountains — near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, — By the gray woods, — by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp, — By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls, — By each spot the most unholy — In each nook most melancholy, — There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past — Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by — White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the worms, and Heaven. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule — For the heart whose woes are legion 'T is a peaceful, soothing region — For the spirit that walks in shadow 'T is — oh 't is an Eldorado! But the traveler, traveling through it, May not — dare not openly view it ; Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed ; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule.

From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, It hath not been my use to pray With moving lips or bended knees ; But silently, by slow degrees, My spirit I to Love compose, In humble trust mine eye-lids close, With reverential resignation, No wish conceived, no thought exprest, Only a sense of supplication ; A sense o'er all my soul imprest That I am weak, yet not unblest, Since in me, round me, every where Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. But yester-night I prayed aloud In anguish and in agony, Up-starting from the fiendish crowd Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : A lurid light, a trampling throng, Sense of intolerable wrong, And whom I scorned, those only strong ! Thirst of revenge, the powerless will Still baffled, and yet burning still ! Desire with loathing strangely mixed On wild or hateful objects fixed. Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! And shame and terror over all ! Deeds to be hid which were not hid, Which all confused I could not know Whether I suffered, or I did : For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe, My own or others still the same Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame. So two nights passed : the night's dismay Saddened and stunned the coming day. Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me Distemper's worst calamity. The third night, when my own loud scream Had waked me from the fiendish dream, O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, I wept as I had been a child ; And having thus by tears subdued My anguish to a milder mood, Such punishments, I said, were due To natures deepliest stained with sin,-- For aye entempesting anew The unfathomable hell within, The horror of their deeds to view, To know and loathe, yet wish and do ! Such griefs with such men well agree, But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? To be beloved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed.

The worst, the World can wreak on me--the worst That can make Life indifferent, yet disturb With whisper'd Discontents the dying prayer-- I have beheld the whole of all, wherein My Heart had any interest in this Life, To be disrent and torn from off my Hopes That nothing now is left. Why then live on ? That Hostage, which the world had in it's keeping Given by me as a Pledge that I would live-- That Hope of Her, say rather, that pure Faith In her fix'd Love, which held me to keep truce With the Tyranny of Life--is gone ah ! whither ? What boots it to reply ? 'tis gone ! and now Well may I break this Pact, this League of Blood That ties me to myself--and break I shall !