“What meets mine ear,
That every nerve and bone of me cries halt?
What is this cold that nips me at the throat?
This shiver in my blood? this icy note
Of awe within my agonising brain?
Neither of shame, nor love, nor fear, nor pain,
Nor anything? Has love no antidote,
Courage no buckler? Hark! it comes again.
Friend, hast thou heard the wailing of the damned?
Friend, hast thou listened when a murderer shammed
Pale smiles amid his fellows as they spoke
Low of his crime: his fear is like to choke
His palsied throat. How, if Hell’s gate were slammed
This very hour upon thy womanfolk?
Conceive, I charge thee! Brace thy spirit up
To drink at that imagination’s cup!
Then, shriek, and pass! For thou shalt understand
A little of the pressure of the hand
That crushed me now.” [via]