Teis coloured by the common air,
Its atmosphere with death is rife;
A moral pestilence is there,
Fevered-Exacting-False and vain;
Like a Disease, it lingers on,
To all that blest its first sweet reign,
And desperate with the long decay,
It's morning dew & light, are gone;
To be within itself entombed,
One treasured and unbroken dream;
A yet more desperate despair,
Seems ever what it once could seem,
And its Better far alone to dwell,
Dreaming above the Dearest Past,
And keeping in the silent cell,
Life's best illusions to the last.
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