The Dungeon represents the dungeon in my mind
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars.
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blakening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went- and came,
and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light.
-Lord Byron, The Darkness
Alone, alone, all, all, alone,
Alone on the wide, wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.
I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the men lay.
But oh! more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man's eye!
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, passages from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Nothing. The air outside
burns my eyes.
I'll pull them out
and get rid of the burning.
-Jim Morrison
He who was living is now dead.
We who were living are now dying,
With a little patience.
-T.S. Eliot, from The Wasteland
A grief without pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief
In a word, or sigh, or tear-
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from Dejection: An Ode
When Truth in a glance should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
But the test of affections a Tear.
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more,
My Mary to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bower
I remember the hour
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
By another possest, may she live ever blest
Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign what
I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.
Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe
Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask- all I wish- is a Tear.
-Lord Byron, passages from The Tear written October 26, 1806
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