Classic Poem

I feel that your neglect has flayed my soul
And left it a sore, bleeding, pulsing whole!
I feel there is hot fire in pain,
To boil the iron-pot that is my brain!

All my experience, all my thoughts and dreams,
Bubble together, and the mixture steams;
In lovely shapes the bluey vapours rise,
Angels and kindly goddesses console my eyes.

Into the boiling pot I plunge my spoon,
And of hot misery receive my boon,
For from the viscid liquor make I shapes,
Fairies and goblins, little goats and apes.

Many-hued jewels, gem-like flowers,
Bright beads to count kind prayers and happy hours;
Once from the pot a crystal sphere I wrought,
It was a new, clear, and quite splendid thought.