Sin

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...