Sympathetic Horror

From livid skies that, without end 
As stormy as your future roll,
what thoughts into your empty soul
(Answer me libertine!) descend?

Insatiable yet for all
that turns on darkness, doom or dice,
I'll not like Ovid mourn my fall,
chased from the latin paradies.

Skies torn like seacoasts by the storm!
In you I see my pride take form 
and the huge clouds that rush in streams

Are the black hearses of my dreams, 
and your red rays reflect the hell 
in which my heart is pleased to dwell. 

		Roy campbell