Joseph Skipsey
THE hopes that allured me
         To cope with the worst,
     At length have secured me
         The tortures accurst,
             Of fever and grief,
             And frenzy—in brief
Ills—ills from which Death is the only relief.
 
 
     But Titan-like lieth
         My soul in her chains—
     Hourly she sigheth,
         The answer she gains,
             But adds night and day
             To pain and dismay—
’Tis the scream of the vulture despair at his prey.
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