We pass our endless hours, insatiate.
Only our hair in youth's abundance grows,
And turns a torture to the aching brain,
Crisping and curling on our ashen brows,
Pale forehead scor'd with Passions hieroglyph,
Over our beauty's ruin, tired eyes,
Sunk cheek, and writhen lips of a fever'd mouth,
That ever laughs, but smiles not ever, at all.
O agony of fix'd unclosing lids
Under the blasting cressets above that flare,
Reverberate from the slabb'd asphaltum way,
No respite ever of dew, of dawn, of tears!
No light wind stirs, no spring-time wakes again,
But swooning scents make faint the icy air
Where spiring incense fumes unceasingly.
3rd Masque:
Come, I grow home-sick for the harmony
Of our Eternal holiday in Hell.
I hear the echo of our revelry!
