by Steven "Prometheus" Hoey
O Mists and damps, O low hung clouds
That cloak the days in gauzy veils
And leech our bloom to colours pale;
Gather round me like soulless shrouds
To stifle my heartís hopeful beat
With endless hours of icy sleet.
Hyperion, felled Fount of Light,
Has long since fled fayre Albion,
Long lost without dayís Campion,
Nor one to guide her through the night
That swiftly fall upon my door,
A silent wave that inks the shore.
O murk and gloom, O mood of pitch
Canst thou open my clenched fist,
That sombre mill wherein weíre grist?
Must our smothered joy make thee rich?
I flee before thy vapírous breath
That seeks to choke me unto death.