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And from my eyes I learn --
Being myself my witness -- their return.
Yet, all the same, without a lyre, my soul,
Itself its teacher too, chants from within
Erinus' dirge, not having now the whole
Of Hope's dear boldness: nor my inwards sin --
The heart that's rolled in whirls against the mind
Justly presageful of a fate behind.
But I pray -- things false, from my hope, may fall
Into the fate that's not-fulfilled-at-all!
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