Yes, I’ve got lemon-lime, Isakov, dewdrops; I’ve shade o’er my Soul. And yet I am restlessly alive, though I have dreamt of peace like the dead afternoons, the stale air of liberty at last.
Where is that coveted joy that is of no pain? that I’ve found myself relief in the smothering universe—And for what? have I sought parched this river of an infinite spring, but to find thirst the Life-giver, no Lord for the rest in all they’re longing?
I croon old songs of madness to the reach of my lungs. And by such scattered traces of despair do I taste faith truly and utterly, as by the goblet of a body I should drink the wine of Paradise.
I thought my lamentations final. I thought my mind at ease, my spirit salved…
after The Moon Was Red and Dangerous