DESPAIR

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Hence vain, illusive Hope,
Thou errant guide, thou jesting, mocking fool!
For thee should be the hangman’s rope,
Or drowning in the deepest pool,
Or everlasting prison in the darkest pit
Of Dante’s hell,
Where like a Siren thou should’st sit
And mock thyself by saying: all is well.
I henceforth choose black Melancholy’s aid,—
The only prophetess of real truth,
Who nothing promises, who never made
A fair illusion for aspiring youth;—
“All is nothing,” she doth whisper still,
A whisper from a Sibyl’s cave it seems,
A soothing balm for every human ill,
A true solution of man’s checkered dreams.
Thou sable sovereign of man’s destiny,
Thou cypress-crowned queen of night and grave,
Thou ruler of man’s woe and misery,—
The world’s great cry which like a wave
Breaks on the rocks of cruel Fate,—
Thou autocrat of all that overwhelms
Man’s soul with sorrow, disappointment, hate,
To thee belongs, at last, all worlds and realms.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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