Let me roam about my home;
let my whole self go away:—:
for there are voices singing. . . .
singing. . . .
Those who have cried
have seen 'em, in their home;
in their dry cellar; in old quays;
in deadlands; and in the late hours—
they lied,
as in the dinging
of the doorbell drives those mad days
that once was ours
away.

Paralyzing gesture stops ye motion,
where the scarecrow once did lay. . . .

but ye move no more;
frozen with the flowers.

Death dreams too, I suppose—,
but ne'er anyone ever cares:
apathy kills and chills—,
it kills and chills, and kills. . . .
Desolation now is in my heart,
and it's in their's too now, I suppose,—
the well has gone dry;
now to and fro—[despair],
for thence we must fall apart;
as atop those dead hills,
they hear the dead ghouls without knowing why,
but they know they reek despair
which WE have come to bear.

Fear is eternal,
as it comes from that red-glare. . . .

they scoff at us still,
but we'll show 'em what WE had to forebear. . . .
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