A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness - -
Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness;
A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain’s insistence;
A sense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence;
A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken - -
Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.
I’m not depressed, I just think this poem is well done. Very descriptive!