Dark, Dark is all I find for metaphor;
All else were contrast; - save that contrast's wall
Is down, and all opposed things flow together
Into a vast monotony, where night
and day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,
Are synonyms. What now - what now to me
Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers
That clutter up the world? You were my song!
Now, now let discord scream! You were my flower!
Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not
Plant things above your grave - (the common balm
Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)
Amid sensations rendered negative
By your elimination stands today,
Certain, unmixed, the eliment of greif;
I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth
With travesties of suffering, nor seek
To effigy its corporeal bulk
In little wry-faced images of woe.
I cannot call you back; and I desire
No utterance in my immaterial voice.
I cannot even turn my face this way
Or that, and say, "My face is turned to you";
I know not where you are, I do not know
If heaven hold you or if earth transmute,
Body and soul, you into earth again;
But this I know: - Not for one second's space
Shall I insult my sight with visionings
Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed
Beholds, self-conjured in the injured air.
Let the world wail! Let drip its easy tears!
My sorrow shall be dumb!

-from Renascence