One fiery-coloured moment of great life! And then--how barren the nations’ praise! How vain the trump of Glory! Bitter thorns Were in that laurel leaf, whose toothed barbs Burned and bit deep till fire and red flame Seemed to feed full upon my brain, and make The garden a bare desert. With wild hands I strove to tear it from my bleeding brow, But all in vain; and with a dolorous cry That paled the lingering stars before their time, I waked at last, and saw the timorous dawn Peer with grey face into my darkened room, And would have deemed it a mere idle dream But for this restless pain that gnaws my heart,…
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