Hush! ’tis the gap between two lightnings.    Room
Is none for peace in this thou callest peace,
This breathing-while wherein the breathing cease,
The pulses sicken, harkening through the gloom.
Afar the thunders of a coming doom
Ramp on the cowering winds. Lo! at the dread,
Thy heart’s tomb yawns and renders up its dead,—
The hopes ’gainst hope embalmèd in its womb.

Cants thou endure, if the pent flood o’erflows?
Who is estated heir to constancy?
Behold, I hardly know if I outlast
The minute underneath whose heel I live;
Yet I endure, have stayed the minute passed,
Perchance may stay the next. Who knows, who knows?

Francis Thompson