Your Eastern drugs, your spices, your perfumes, Are all in vain; They cannot snatch my soul from out its glooms, Nor soothe the brain. My mind is dark as cycle-sealèd tombs, And must remain In darkness till the light of God illumes Its black inane. It was eight o’clock on a still summer evening, and, the ladies having retired, two men were lingering in a pleasant, indolent fashion over their wine in the dining-room of Roylands Grange. To be exact, only the elder gentleman was paying any attention to his port, for the young man who sat at the head of the table stared vaguely on his empty glass, and at his equally empty plate, as if his thoughts were miles away, which was precisely the case. …
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.