From regions of the sun’s half-dreamt decay,

All day the cruel rain strikes darkly down;

And from the night thy fatal stars shall frown—

Beauty, wilt thou abide this night and day?

Roofless, at portals dark and desperate,

Wilt thou a shelter unrefused implore,

And past the tomb’s too-hospitable door,

Evade thy lover, in eluding Hate?

Alas, for what have I to offer thee?—

Chill halls of mind, dark rooms of memory

Where thou shalt dwell with woes and thoughts infirm;

This rumour-throngÈd citadel of Sense,

Trembling before some nameless Imminence;

And fellow-guestship with the glutless Worm.