When The Low Heavy Sky Weighs Like A Lid Upon The Spirit Aching For The Light And All The Wide Horizon'S Line Is Hid By A Black Day Sadder Than Any Night; When The Changed Earth Is But A Dungeon Dank Where Batlike Hope Goes Blindly Fluttering And, Striking Wall And Roof And Mouldered Plank, Bruises His Tender Head And Timid Wing; When Like Grim Prison-Bars Stretch Down The Thin, Straight, Rigid Pillars Of The Endless Rain, And The Dumb Throngs Of Infamous Spiders Spin Their Meshes In The Caverns Of The Brain;, Suddenly, Bells Leap Forth Into The Air, Hurling A Hideous Uproar To The Sky As 'Twere A Band Of Homeless Spirits Who Fare Through The Strange Heavens, Wailing Stubbornly. And Hearses, Without Drum Or Instrument, File Slowly Through My Soul; Crushed, Sorrowful, Weeps Hope, And Grief, Fierce And Omnipotent, Plants His Black Banner On My Drooping Skull.