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Phillip

When the low heavy sky weighs like a lid on the spirit, aching for the light,
And when embracing the horizon it pours on us a black day which is sadder than any night.
When the earth is turned into a dripping dungeon in which hope, like a bat, flutters blindly,
And bruises its timid wing and tender head against the walls and rotted ceilings.
When the rain stretching down its long streaks of water imitates the bars of an enormous prison
And a silent throng of loathsome spiders come and weave their webs inside our brains,
And suddenly the bells swing angrily, and hurl their hideous uproar into the sky like a band of wandering spirits, who wail relentlessly.
And long hearses without drums or music move in a slow procession through my soul.
And defeated hope bursts into tears.
And the fierce tyrant, Anguish, sets his black banner on my bowed head.