A Blight, A Gloom, I Know Not What, Has Crept Upon My Gladness-- Some Vague, Remote Ancestral Touch Of Sorrow, Or Of Madness; A Fear That Is Not Fear, A Pain That Has Not Pain'S Insistence; A Sense Of Longing, Or Of Loss, In Some Foregone Existence; A Subtle Hurt That Never Pen Has Writ Nor Tongue Has Spoken-- Such Hurt Perchance As Nature Feels When A Blossomed Bough Is Broken.