"Great Nemesis. . .
I call thee from the dust!
. . . in these pages a record will I seek . . .
Though I be ashes; this far hour shall wreak
the deep prophetic fullness of my verse. . .
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot?
Have I not had
my brain seared, my heart riven, hopes sapped, name blighted,
life lied away?
But there is that within me
which shall tire torture and time
and breathe when I expire;
something unearthly . . .
like the remember'd tone of a muted lyre. "