Green grow the Rushes, O

AND do the rushes grow so green Upon this chill All Hallows’ E’en That voices as a lutany Surge through my window-panes to die? For in this room of rot and rust These dark red circles filled with dust, These sodden and lead-heavy eyes Long stunned with muted symphonies, Are racked with the old hunger, hung With memory’s hard ice-flakes, stung By each note-star in crystal set To glint and pierce this lazaret. O, why not let me wallow, bleed, Riot and guzzle in red greed, And leave my doom-gripped body tossed Into an agony of frost? Cruel, marauding throats, begone! Before I hurl my curse upon Your youth, oh loathsome things, to try Torturing me with purity!