Melancholy

"The church, a ruin lorn,

Is bowed and sad and empty, a place of shadows mourn;

And through it's gaping windows a moaning breeze is heard,

As though grey witches whispered and one could hear their word.

On pillars and on altar, and painted walls remain

Naught but the gloomy contours on which time spreads its stain.

For priest a cricket chirps a sermon fine, obscure;

For sexton digs a wood worm eternal sepulchre."

Emil Botta - Melancholy