The gangrened wound! The ache of pulses dinned
It beats upon my brain-the burning wind
It pricks-the barb, the hook not forged with heat,
Against my ribs with thud of trampling feet
And like a bowling wheel mine eyeballs spin,
By fierce winds from my course, nor can rein in
That raves I know not what!-a random tide
Of muddied waters buffeting the wide,
