We speak in fretful, frantic, timorous tones Prophesy We weep for a gilded age Larded and garlanded with what? What murder? What horror? What lavish surfeit of grief bequeathed? Eulogize o'er the ever-nearing end Clinging ever tighter To this million sorrowed breast But what dreader fears fester Than Armageddon denied? Better to quicken this immaculate decline And so, from paradisе blows the mingling storm With too-known horrors foretold Lo, what dire fatе do we mourn When grimmer tides threaten To persist to ebb and flow? Left to founder, tempest toss'd In blood-dimmed torrents, lost Left to founder, tempest toss'd In blood-dimmed torrents, lost