1Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
2It hath not been my use to pray
3With moving lips or bended knees;
4But silently, by slow degrees,
5My spirit I to Love compose,
6In humble trust mine eye-lids close,
7With reverential resignation,
8No wish conceived, no thought exprest,
9Only a sense of supplication;
10A sense o'er all my soul imprest
11That I am weak, yet not unblest,
12Since in me, round me, every where
13Eternal strength and Wisdom are.
14But yester-night I prayed aloud
15In anguish and in agony,
16Up-starting from the fiendish crowd
17Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me:
18A lurid light, a trampling throng,
19Sense of intolerable wrong,
20And whom I scorned, those only strong!
21Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
22Still baffled, and yet burning still!
23Desire with loathing strangely mixed
24On wild or hateful objects fixed.
25Fantastic passions! maddening brawl!
26And shame and terror over all!
27Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
28Which all confused I could not know
29Whether I suffered, or I did:
30For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe,
31My own or others still the same
32Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.
33So two nights passed: the night's dismay
34Saddened and stunned the coming day.
35Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me
36Distemper's worst calamity.
37The third night, when my own loud scream
38Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
39O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
40I wept as I had been a child;
41And having thus by tears subdued
42My anguish to a milder mood,
43Such punishments, I said, were due
44To natures deepliest stained with sin,—
45For aye entempesting anew
46The unfathomable hell within,
47The horror of their deeds to view,
48To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
49Such griefs with such men well agree,
50But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?
51To be beloved is all I need,
52And whom I love, I love indeed.
1Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
2It hath not been my use to pray
3With moving lips or bended knees;
4But silently, by slow degrees,
5My spirit I to Love compose,
6In humble trust mine eye-lids close,
7With reverential resignation,
8No wish conceived, no thought exprest,
9Only a sense of supplication;
10A sense o'er all my soul imprest
11That I am weak, yet not unblest,
12Since in me, round me, every where
13Eternal strength and Wisdom are.
14But yester-night I prayed aloud
15In anguish and in agony,
16Up-starting from the fiendish crowd
17Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me:
18A lurid light, a trampling throng,
19Sense of intolerable wrong,
20And whom I scorned, those only strong!
21Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
22Still baffled, and yet burning still!
23Desire with loathing strangely mixed
24On wild or hateful objects fixed.
25Fantastic passions! maddening brawl!
26And shame and terror over all!
27Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
28Which all confused I could not know
29Whether I suffered, or I did:
30For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe,
31My own or others still the same
32Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.
33So two nights passed: the night's dismay
34Saddened and stunned the coming day.
35Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me
36Distemper's worst calamity.
37The third night, when my own loud scream
38Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
39O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
40I wept as I had been a child;
41And having thus by tears subdued
42My anguish to a milder mood,
43Such punishments, I said, were due
44To natures deepliest stained with sin,—
45For aye entempesting anew
46The unfathomable hell within,
47The horror of their deeds to view,
48To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
49Such griefs with such men well agree,
50But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?
51To be beloved is all I need,
52And whom I love, I love indeed.
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees;
But silently, by slow degrees,
My spirit I to Love compose,
In humble trust mine eye-lids close,
With reverential resignation,
No wish conceived, no thought exprest,
Only a sense of supplication;
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, every where
Eternal strength and Wisdom are.
But yester-night I prayed aloud
In anguish and in agony,
Up-starting from the fiendish crowd
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me:
A lurid light, a trampling throng,
Sense of intolerable wrong,
And whom I scorned, those only strong!
Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
Still baffled, and yet burning still!
Desire with loathing strangely mixed
On wild or hateful objects fixed.
Fantastic passions! maddening brawl!
And shame and terror over all!
Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
Which all confused I could not know
Whether I suffered, or I did:
For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe,
My own or others still the same
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.
So two nights passed: the night's dismay
Saddened and stunned the coming day.
Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me
Distemper's worst calamity.
The third night, when my own loud scream
Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
I wept as I had been a child;
And having thus by tears subdued
My anguish to a milder mood,
Such punishments, I said, were due
To natures deepliest stained with sin,—
For aye entempesting anew
The unfathomable hell within,
The horror of their deeds to view,
To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
Such griefs with such men well agree,
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?
To be beloved is all I need,
And whom I love, I love indeed.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
Friends of Coleridge — Visit the Friends of Coleridge, a society dedicated to Coleridge's work.
A Short Biography — Learn more about Coleridge's life and work via the British Library.
Opium and the Romantics — Read an essay about how opium, a commonly prescribed drug in the 19th century, influenced Romantic writers like Coleridge, whose own withdrawal pains inspired this poem.
Coleridge's Legacy — Read biographer Richard Holmes's discussion of what makes Coleridge's poetry special.