And since he cannot spend and use aright The little time here given him in trust, But wasteth it in weary undelight Of foolish toil and trouble, strife and lust, 25 He naturally claimeth to inherit The everlasting Future, that his merit May have full scope; as surely is most just. O length of the intolerable hours, O nights that are as aeons of slow pain, 30 O Time, too ample for our vital powers, O Life, whose woeful vanities remain Immutable for all of all our legions Through all the centuries and in all the regions, Not of your speed and variance WE complain. 35 WE do not ask a longer term of strife, Weakness and weariness and nameless woes; We do not claim renewed and endless life When this which is our torment here shall close, An everlasting conscious inanition! 40 We yearn for speedy death in full fruition, Dateless oblivion and divine repose. XIV Large glooms were gathered in the mighty fane, With tinted moongleams slanting here and there; And all was hush: no swelling organ-strain, No chant, no voice or murmuring of prayer; No priests came forth, no tinkling censers fumed, 5 And the high altar space was unillumed. Around the pillars and against the walls Leaned men and shadows; others seemed to brood Bent or recumbent in secluded stalls. Perchance they were not a great multitude 10 Save in that city of so lonely streets Where one may count up every face he meets. All patiently awaited the event Without a stir or sound, as if no less Self-occupied, doomstricken while attent. 15 And then we heard a voice of solemn stress From the dark pulpit, and our gaze there met Two eyes which burned as never eyes burned yet: Two steadfast and intolerable eyes Burning beneath a broad and rugged brow; 20 The head behind it of enormous size. And as black fir-groves in a large wind bow, Our rooted congregation, gloom-arrayed, By that great sad voice deep and full were swayed:-- O melancholy Brothers, dark, dark, dark! 25 O battling in black floods without an ark! O spectral wanderers of unholy Night! My soul hath bled for you these sunless years, With bitter blood-drops running down like tears: Oh dark, dark, dark, withdrawn from joy and light! 30 My heart is sick with anguish for your bale; Your woe hath been my anguish; yea, I quail And perish in your perishing unblest. And I have searched the highths and depths, the scope Of all our universe, with desperate hope 35 To find some solace for your wild unrest.