[BNP/E3, 79 – 16]

_______

The sickly haunt of fear, which as it sieves,

Trembles at phantoms which will never come

But whose dim possibility bereaves

The aching mind of thought such as will home

Science and knowledge. Of the cares that wan

Through our brief living’s inideal span

One sense there is {…}

He’s mad I hear them say. If to be mad

Be to have an awful and a dreadful sense

Of ill and misery, of things lone and sad

Till the deep heart in its own woe intense

Reels in itself, waiving the fond pretence

Of thought and knowledge which are {…} and cold –

I’ve long been mad – I know not how nor whence,

But I have lain like a {…} castle old

Crumbling and near to death, with much that is untold.

[16^v]

_______

I found…

     And weakly minds under {…} things

Made the eternal prey of knaves, and priests and kings,

I have more thoughts other than old earth hath years.