I dread to open doors. I dread to see The great grey blank-faced Present stare at me, The mocking goblin Future hollow-eyed, And Past, still walking, though its time has died.Past, fixed in time, yet fickly wavering:A million varied countenances o’er thy features spring;One moment, filled with joys so sweet their memory is grief,Next, cruel beyond belief, And flinging phantom pain at me from out the void:A million wrongs, a million pangs, a million sins of magnitude unknown and unconfessed.I shake and crawl at thy behest,Who raisest ghosts of wickedness fron shreds of wrong long-dormant.I flee thee–cling to thee–bliss yet torment,”I was lovely,” sayest thou;Now thou art nightmare, thou art Present, haunting sleep and squeezing brow.Door past door I flee,Closing each with feverish hands behind,Only to findAgain this room, this place–can it be Hell?–Where Past and Present indistinguishable dwell:No solace save in memory, and memory torment be.

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Scrupulosity