From regions of the sun's half-dreamt decay,
All day the cruel rain strikes darkly down;
And from the night thy fatal stars shall frown-- Beauty, wilt thou abide this night and day?
Roofless, at portals dark and desperate,
Wilt thou a shelter unrefused implore,
And, past the tomb's too-hospitable door,
Evade thy lover in eluding Hate?
Alas, for what have I to offer thee?
Chill halls of mind, dank rooms of memory,
Where thou shalt dwell with woes and thoughts infirm;
This rumour-thronged citadel of Sense,
Trembling before some nameless imminence;
And fellow-guestship with the glutless Worm.