Grim-visaged comfortless Despair.

Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond today.

To each his suff'rings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain; Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fat…

Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

The darkness. Goddamn the darkness. It seemed to Garraty they had been buried alive in it. Immured in it. Dawn was a century away. Many of them would never see…

My soul is full of whispered song,- My blindness is my sight; The shadows that I feared so long Are full of life and light.

It may be we shall know in the hereafter Why we, begetting hopes, give birth to fears, And why the world's too beautiful for laughter, Too gross for tears.