In days gone by, when all of life's Impressions offered me new thrills: A murmurous grove, a maiden's eyes, The nightingale in twilit hills.... When my sublimest aspirations For freedom, glory, love and art Instilled of holy inspiration, So stirred the blood and spurred the heart, Then were the days of bliss and promise With wakeful anguish overcast, As secretly a wicked Genius Began to visit me unasked. Grim were the meetings that we had: His witching glance, the grins he stole, The sting of every word he spat Infused cold poison through my soul. With indefatigable slander He tempted Providence, and smiled. Beauty he called a simple fancy, And inspiration he reviled. He doubted freedom, love, salvation And turned on life a sneering gaze, As there was naught in all Creation He cared to bless with any praise.