I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.   
What hours, O what black hoürs we have spent   
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!   
And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.   
    With witness I speak this. But where I say          
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament   
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent   
To dearest him that lives alas! away.   
   
  I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree   
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;   
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.   
  Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see   
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be   
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.