A monstrous ray of blackness fills my mind
My ears do echo silence. All about
Is dark. No comfort here, for to be blind
And deaf, and dumb, and totally without
Sensation or the beating of my heart
Does keep my soul from opening the latch
Which leads me on to you, that other part
Of me, nor can I ever hope to catch
Such treasure as one single, precious, sight
Or sound, or touch, of that exquisite creature.
For all around me is the shroud of night
In which such skeins of beauty cannot feature.
O bitter dream! All happy thoughts of you
Are false, and all my memories untrue.
Gervase
This kind of glum sentimentality is unattractive, particularly when it is totally insincere. If I did not know the poet personally I would feel sorry that he is so miserable but in fact he is a jolly old Scotsman who does a notable impersonation of Billy Connolly. I suspect he had a good Hogmanay and wrote this rubbish during a monumental hangover.
