He alone could get me out of this But he neither knows nor cares After Hell there is a full stop. The storm in my brain its High tensional rays, The sickness in my soul And the growl and biting grit That sets me back Each moment forward I want to fly Forward on the wake of some aerial device. Where every moment is fresh A flower or bird not seen. To some trespassed spot Of rippling streams, good natured Enchantment, ease, and plentiful rest, Where there is no access to these painful and Immediate idiosyncracies: Where peace is formal, wholesome, and pure. And I would not call this escape Nor would I call this inaction; But a source from where all Growth and activity could reside, Could breed and acquire A new note and thought, Conspire with him whom I have recently admonished, A new foregathering of Spring.