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Christopher Brennan - "There is a far-off thrill that troubles me: . ."
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There is a far-off thrill that troubles me:
a faint thin ripple of shadow, momently,
dies out across my lucid icy cell.
I am betrayed by winter to the spell
of morbid sleep, that somewhere rolls its waves
insidiously, gather`d from unblest graves,
to creep above each distant crumbled mole.
When that assault is full against my soul,
I must go down, thro` chapels black with mould,
past ruin`d doors, whose arches, ridged with gold,
catch, in their grooves, a gloom more blackly dript,
some stairway winding hours-long towards the crypt
where panic night lies stricken `neath the curse
exuding from the dense enormous hearse
of some old vampire-god, whose bulk, within,
lies gross and festering in his shroud of sin.
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