Thy conscience ofttimes estimates
       Itself by itself midst dark logics
             Of the old slate-grey slate of slates.
             I am no creature of "chaotics"
Desiring to pry into dry changeable ways.

Fade slowly into that quietude,
   That lonely but desired emptiness.
Be fainter than faint in solitude;
And accompany Misery at high interest--
A use of usury that leaves many dues.

Now come haunting thoughts of Oblivion,
Not a one canst I undo at all without your
Granting; and I cannot move with any idiom
Anything if you stall to so wish it or implore--
Because it is not mine, nor is it my decision.