How Have I Wandered Here To This Vaulted Room In The House Of Life? - The Floor Was Ruffled With Gold Last Evening, And She Who Was Softly In Bloom, Glimmered As Flowers That In Perfume At Twilight Unfold For The Flush Of The Night; Whereas Now The Gloom Of Every Dirty, Must-Besprinkled Mould, And Damp Old Web Of Misery'S Heirloom Deadens This Day'S Grey-Dropping Arras-Fold. And What Is This That Floats On The Undermist Of The Mirror Towards The Dusty Grate, As If Feeling Unsightly Its Way To The Warmth? - This Thing With A List To The Left? This Ghost Like A Candle Swealing? Pale-Blurred, With Two Round Black Drops, As If It Missed Itself Among Everything Else, Here Hungrily Stealing Upon Me! - My Own Reflection! - Explicit Gist Of My Presence There In The Mirror That Leans From The Ceiling! Then Will Somebody Square This Shade With The Being I Know I Was Last Night, When My Soul Rang Clear As A Bell And Happy As Rain In Summer? Why Should It Be So? What Is There Gone Against Me, Why Am I In Hell?