When Low And Heavy Sky Weighs Like A Lid Upon The Spirit Moaning In Ennui, And When, Spanning The Circle Of The World, It Pours A Black Day Sadder Than Our Nights; When Earth Is Changed Into A Sweaty Cell, In Which Hope, Captured, Like A Frantic Bat, Batters The Walls With Her Enfeebled Wing, Striking Her Head Against The Rotting Beams; When Steady Rain Trailing Its Giant Train Descends On Us Like Heavy Prison Bars, And When A Silent Multitude Of Spiders Spins Its Disgusting Threads Deep In Our Brains, Bells All At Once Jump Out With All Their Force, And Hurl About A Mad Cacophony As If They Were Those Lost And Homeless Souls Who Send A Dogged Whining To The Skies. And Long Corteges Minus Drum Or Tone Deploy Morosely Through My Being: Hope The Conquered, Moans, And Tyrant Anguish Gloats In My Bowed Skull He Fixed His Black Flag.