My mind is like a wretched room, So bare, so drear;Dull with a heavy, ugly gloom, No light, no cheer.
My thoughts are like the beetles black That creep the floor,Scurry and hide in yawning crack In wall and door.
My feelings,--like the meagre light My candles give,So faint, so fearful of the night, It scarcely lives.
My outlook through a dingy pane-- Distress and sin--Or if I turn around again To look within--
My room is but a sordid place-- The paper torn,Nothing of beauty there, nor grace, All mean, forlorn.
