The lamp is dimly flickering, and will soon starve for oil in this horrid gloom. My wild eyes paint the shadows on the walls. And I hear the poor ghost of my lost love moaning and sobbing without. Shrieks of my unhappiness are borne to me on the wings of the wind. I sit covering in fear, with my tattered garments close around my choking throat.
Faith is weak.
Hope has laid her whitened corse upon my bosom. The lamp sinks lower and lower. Is this the crown ye promised to set down on the foreheads. These are but withered leaves. Meekly I have toiled and spun the fleece.