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Christopher Brennan - IIII. The Labour Of Night
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What gems chill glitter yon, thrice dipt 
 in dusky Styx, or tears unshed 
 the spheres, in icy exile stript, 
 congeal in midnight`s gaze of lead? 
 O thou crown`d caitiff, o`er our head 
 whereon thine agelong wounds have dript 
 the dark arms of thy passion spread 
 dwarf the vast vault to a hard crypt. 
 Round thine eternal hour of woe 
 the abyss urges, a rigid throe, 
 whose woeful dark sees nought emerge, 
 save these, their consolation vain 
 and frozen on the helpless verge, 
 lonely, ecstatic fires of pain.
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