Sympathetic Horror From livid skies that, without end As stormy as your future roll, what thoughts into your empty soul (Answer me libertine!) descend? Insatiable yet for all that turns on darkness, doom or dice, I'll not like Ovid mourn my fall, chased from the latin paradies. Skies torn like seacoasts by the storm! In you I see my pride take form and the huge clouds that rush in streams Are the black hearses of my dreams, and your red rays reflect the hell in which my heart is pleased to dwell. Roy campbell