“There is a fever of the spirit, The brand of Cain’s unresting doom, Which in the lone dark souls that bear it Glows like the lamp in Tullia’s tomb: Unlike that lamp, its subtle fire Burns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart, Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire, Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart. When hope, love, life itself, are only Dust — spectral memories — dead and cold — The unfed fire burns bright and lonely, Like that undying lamp of old: And by that drear illumination, Till time its clay-built home has rent, Thought broods on feeling’s desolation — The soul is its own monument.”
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