In Hades flows the chthonic Styx, a river
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of death and woe—a current of despair,
a physical demise that we all share
that shell-shocks our souls and makes us shiver!
Beware! It's like cirrhosis of the liver
that kills (us) with great relish—it does not care,
and horrifies us beyond what we can bear.
Entombed like lifeless cadavers, we now quiver
with the drowned ringing of the wet death-knell
(where Heaven's overflowed and God is just dead),—
as if we’re just a drink away from hell!
Here, where daunted souls dare not swim or tread,
we are like phantoms; like ghosts in a shell:
yet, we fear not hell—but despair we dread.
"To have the soul of a poet is to feel with the mind, and to think with the heart."