The Woods of Despair

Blank and bare Are the Woods of Despair, On the goldenest summer day; And grim and grey The trodden way That leads, that leads you there. O often trodden, Slippery, sodden, Lonely, loathed way.

Turn and pace From place to place, From desolate nook to nook; And in every brook You stop to look, You meet your own, own face, Your sickened, weary, Desolate, dreary, Lonely, loathed face.