And in that shrill antithesis of calm
The goaded brain is struck with ague,
By a full moon of waste sublimely sweats.

Relent not, divine hatred,
In this convulsive prime.
You are enchanted against death
By that you are but death
And nothing but death can love or know.
Nor yet can mourn, except by mocking,
Crushed zeal, tired verse, bruised decoration,
Or any agony of blemish—
Except by vengeful imitation.