Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain <br />I hear your words in mournful cadence toll <br />Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul <br />Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain <br />To batter down resistance, fall again <br />Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole, <br />The bitter blows of truth, until the whole <br />Is hammered into fact made strangely plain. <br />Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you. <br />Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns <br />Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim. <br />Now in the haunted twilight I must do <br />Your will. I grasp the cup which over-runs, <br />And with my trembling lips I touch the rim.<br /><br />Amy Lowell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-end-4/
