Chapter VII

An iron despotism the day's:
A brutal anarchy the night's:
What hope for hope when day betrays,
And night in death delights?

For, once I prayed for gulfs of gold,
And morn pooled heav'n with sombre blood:
For skies of stars, and skies behold--
Malignant with the scud.

And so I marvel not that he,
Gray-haired and toothless, hugs his stove,
While I my youth, which once was she,
Have buried with my love.