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 around again
To look within—
My room is but a sordid place—
The paper torn,
Nothing of beauty there, nor grace,
All mean, forlorn.