In that silent wonder of the late night hour,
What makes pretty dames cry and proud men cower,
Void bides in those spaces which separate breath,
In those still moments between heartbeats, still as in death
Overcoming me with great force,
Insidious sadness of inexplicable source,
It's the dark familiar of my folly,
You may know her fondly, for she is Melancholy.
Tears rise within to fall in chagrin
Sorrow and wailing, composure failing,
Face flushing red—a nonsensical dread,
Dread! Dread! Unshakable dread!
In that darkest passing of the watchman's horror,
She slays all sanguine thought though I implore her
Her eyes of void condemn me to oblivion,
My anguish ever-growing to its utmost meridian.
There's no comfort to be given,
No skeleton to free me from her prison,
There's nothing but kind words from sham gents,
Offering emptiness with indifference and so hence,
Collapsing and flailing, color leaving and paling,
Hot tears which once rolled down a cheek now ice cold,
Rigid and resolved, once soft countenance no longer enthralled,
Dead! Dead! Habitual dead!