 | Poems |  |
O Earth, I am heart-sick with weariness!
Thy times and seasons are alike in pain.
I hate the mocking sunshine, and no less
These high cold-staring stars. The enormous chain
Must all be thus unwinded, link by link,
And I must, drop by drop, thus slowly drink
My ocean-cup of misery to the lees.
All places are alike, and yet, as though
I had some hope of finding change, I go
Through cities, forests, deserts, mountains, seas.
Everywhere like a wandering wind I roam.
O Earth! in all thy bounds I only crave
A place of rest—in all thy lands, one grave.
Earth, Earth, O take me home!
Thou that wast guilty of my birth,
Hast thou no pity, O harsh mother Earth!
The unregarded breath of my despair
Groans forth in oft-repeated words of woe:
But I am never mad, even when I tear
This wretched flesh; I never cease to know
The stinging truth, the sharp reality,
Of all that was, and is, and is to be;
The mind doth calmly judge the senses' strife—
And that is ceaseless; for no hour may bring
A moment's lull to my disease of Life.
Sleep's dew that falls on every living thing
With comfortable balm, leaves only me,
Like Gideon's fleece, unwet; this awful lamp,
Burning for ages 'mid sepulchral damp,
Needs no fresh oil nor trimming; on my way
No resting-places stand. I gasp, and pray
For peace, though all in vain until the appointed day.
Thy times and seasons are alike in pain.
I hate the mocking sunshine, and no less
These high cold-staring stars. The enormous chain
Must all be thus unwinded, link by link,
And I must, drop by drop, thus slowly drink
My ocean-cup of misery to the lees.
All places are alike, and yet, as though
I had some hope of finding change, I go
Through cities, forests, deserts, mountains, seas.
Everywhere like a wandering wind I roam.
O Earth! in all thy bounds I only crave
A place of rest—in all thy lands, one grave.
Earth, Earth, O take me home!
Thou that wast guilty of my birth,
Hast thou no pity, O harsh mother Earth!
104
Groans forth in oft-repeated words of woe:
But I am never mad, even when I tear
This wretched flesh; I never cease to know
The stinging truth, the sharp reality,
Of all that was, and is, and is to be;
The mind doth calmly judge the senses' strife—
And that is ceaseless; for no hour may bring
A moment's lull to my disease of Life.
Sleep's dew that falls on every living thing
With comfortable balm, leaves only me,
Like Gideon's fleece, unwet; this awful lamp,
Burning for ages 'mid sepulchral damp,
Needs no fresh oil nor trimming; on my way
No resting-places stand. I gasp, and pray
For peace, though all in vain until the appointed day.
| Poems | |