Dreadful spirits, with scorn
I conjure thee; I mangle the
Fetid corpse, carcass of memory!
For repose I yearn, blest Father,
Therefore I must absolve myself
Of the past; but, Father, they linger
Therein - the vestiges of my weakness,
Dreadful wraiths of sin! They consort
To deceive my eyes and ears, to twist
My tongue with their decree! And so,
They speak: \"You\'ll find no joy, feeble
Flower, within this weedy garden, you
Shall wither beneath Sun\'s smile; ne\'er
Will you taste the crystal rain!\" O, man
Must be mad, to lay his arms aside
And surrender to the adversary at the
Gates of Night; and yet, weakly am I,
Consumed by plight unending that,
E\'en should Dawn for ever reign,
Happiness is of no guarantee to me;
So I surrender, I yield, lay am at your
Alter and take me; embrace me, Father
And, at last, allow me sleep...