Lethargy

This is no midnight rent with thunder and fire,
Charged by mad winds, and wild, bewildering rain;
Here is no great despair, no splendid pain,
But misty light, in which near things retire
And things far off loom close. No least desire
Is here: Why race? — There is no goal to gain;
Only one lethargy of heart and brain.
Which now not even Grief can re-inspire.

A sense of unseen Presences, that throng
The lonely room, the loud and populous street;
A sound from days long past, half wail, half song;
Death hurrying on, with swift, approaching feet,
Showing the man, as in a vision dread,
His cold, dead self stretched stiff upon a bed.