In the Dark Corner

I brush the dust from this old portrait: Yes, it is the same face, exactly, Why does it look at me still with such a look of hate?

I brush the dust from a heap of magazines: Here there is all what you have written, All that you struggled long years and went down to darkness for.

O God, to think what I am writing Will be ever as this!

O God, to think that my own face May some day glare from this dust!