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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355100" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Hypotheses Hypochondriacae</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And should she die, her grave should be<br>Upon the bare top of a sunny hill,<br>Among the moorlands of her own fair land,<br>Amid a ring of old and moss-grown stones<br>In gorse and heather all embosomed.<br>There should be no tall stone, no marble tomb<br>Above her gentle corse;-the ponderous pile<br>Would press too rudely on those fairy limbs.<br>The turf should lightly he, that marked her home.<br>A sacred spot it would be-every bird<br>That came to watch her lone grave should be holy.<br>The deer should browse around her undisturbed;<br>The whin bird by, her lonely nest should build<br>All fearless; for in life she loved to see<br>Happiness in all things-<br>And we would come on summer days<br>When all around was bright, and set us down<br>And think of all that lay beneath that turf<br>On which the heedless moor-bird sits, and whistles<br>His long, shrill, painful song, as though he plained<br>For her that loved him and his pleasant hills;<br>And we would dream again of bygone days<br>Until our eyes should swell with natural tears<br>For brilliant hopes-all faded into air!<br>As, on the sands of Irak, near approach<br>Destroys the traveller's vision of still lakes,<br>And goodly streams reed-clad, and meadows green;<br>And leaves behind the drear reality<br>Of shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand!<br>And when the sullen clouds rose thick on high<br>Mountains on mountains rolling-and dark mist<br>Wrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud,<br>When on her grave swept by the moaning wind<br>Bending the heather-bells-then would I come<br>And watch by her, in silent loneliness,<br>And smile upon the storm-as knowing well<br>The lightning's flash would surely turn aside,<br>Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful sleeps<br>All that gave life and love to one fond heart!<br>I talk of things that are not; and if prayers<br>By night and day availed from my weak lips,<br>Then should they never be! till I was gone,<br>Before the friends I loved, to my long home.<br>Oh pardon me, if e'er I say too much; my mind<br>Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth,<br>As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond-<br>Or brooding melancholy cloys my soul<br>With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted time<br>And bitter feelings swallowed up in jests.<br>Then strange and fearful thoughts flit o'er my brain<br>By indistinctness made more terrible,<br>And incubi mock at me with fierce eyes<br>Upon my couch: and visions, crude and dire,<br>Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity,<br>Space, time, thought, being, blank nonentity,<br>Things incorporeal, fancies of the brain,<br>Seen, heard, as though they were material,<br>All mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me,<br>And lead my soul away from earth and heaven<br>Until I doubt whether I be or not!<br>And then I see all frightful shapes-lank ghosts,<br>Hydras, chimeras, krakens, wastes of sand,<br>Herbless and void of living voice-tall mountains<br>Cleaving the skies with height immeasurable,<br>On which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas,<br>Studded with islands numberless, that stretch<br>Beyond the regions of the sun, and fade<br>Away in distance vast, or dreary clouds,<br>Cold, dark, and watery, where wander I for ever!<br>Or space of ether, where I hang for aye!<br>A speck, an atom-inconsumable-<br>Immortal, hopeless, voiceless, powerless!<br>And oft I fancy, I am weak and old,<br>And all who loved me, one by one, are dead,<br>And I am left alone-and cannot die!<br>Surely there is no rest on earth for souls<br>Whose dreams are like a madman's! I am young<br>And much is yet before me-after years<br>May bring peace with them to my weary heart!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Helston, 1835.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Kingsley">Charles Kingsley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355100" data-title="Hypotheses Hypochondriacae de Charles Kingsley" data-description="And should she die, her grave should be
Upon the bare top of a sunny hill,
Among the moorlands of her own fair land,
Amid a ring of old and moss-grown stones
In gorse and heather all embosomed.
There should be no tall stone, no marble tomb
Above h..."></div>
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