Chapter XIV

I dare not ponder on humanity;
Myself, I dare not ponder, nor my goal.
Oh, would that I were lost upon that sea
Into whose silence, Lethe's currents roll.
Upon its bosom, would that I pressed mine,
Then might some kindly power transform this soul
Into forgetfulness. Or would some wine
Were brewed with musk or attar of the rose
And colored with a tint incarnadine,
And so compounded that a dreamless doze
Would come from one red, richly-scented draught.
Or would that some unmoving glacier froze
My soul within its crystal mine.--No craft
Can save me from this cup of pain unquaffed.