NIGHTMARE ABBEY.
167
When hope, love, life itself, are only
Dust—spectral memories—dead and cold—
The unfed fire burns bright and lonely,
Like that undying lamp of old:
And by that drear illumination,
Till time its clay-built home has rent,
Thought broods on feeling's desolation—
The soul is its own monument.
Dust—spectral memories—dead and cold—
The unfed fire burns bright and lonely,
Like that undying lamp of old:
And by that drear illumination,
Till time its clay-built home has rent,
Thought broods on feeling's desolation—
The soul is its own monument.
Mr. Glowry.
Admirable. Let us all be unhappy together.
Mr. Hilary.
Now, I say again, a catch.
The Reverend Mr. Larynx.
I am for you.
Mr. Hilary.
"Seamen three."
The Reverend Mr. Larynx.
Agreed. I'll be Harry Gill, with the voice of three. Begin.
