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The Spike: or, Victoria College Review 1912



My mind is like a wretched room,
So bare, so drear;
Dull with a heavy, ugly gloom,
No light, no cheer.

My thoughts are like the beetles black,
That creep the floor,
Scurry and hide in yawning crack
In wall and door;

My feelings like the meagre light
My candle gives,
So faint, so fearful of the night,
It scarcely lives.

My outlook through a dingy pane
Distress and sin—
Or if I turn me round again
To look within—

My room is but a sordid place,
The paper torn,
Nothing of beauty there, nor grace
All mean, forlorn.