Old Time is lame and halt,
The snail can barely crawl:
But how should I find fault,
Who cannot move at all?

No gleam of cheerful sun!
No hope my life to save!
I have two rooms, the one
I die in and the grave.

May be, I've long been dead,
May be, a giddy train
Of phantoms fills my head,
And haunts what was my brain.

These dear old gods or devils,
Who see me stiff and dull,
May like to dance their revels
In a dead Poet's skull.

Their rage of weird delight
Is luscious pain to me:
And my bony fingers write
What daylight must not see.