I am most weary of this fatuous me

That doth obtrude a niddering death’s head

At a blithe feast of Springtide jollity,

Of revelling buds and flowers unsurfeited.

I am most weary of this chained thought

That hath forgotten where its mansions are—

And lost the dew its seven-spher’d courses caught

Wandering in plunged dark from star to star.

I am most weary of my stagnant soul

That neither thirsts, nor hungers, nor is stirred

By the gigantic thunders that have rolled

From the white, hurtling lightning of a word.

I am most weary, love; so let thy face—

The sponge that sops my gaze, myself erase.

Oft in the groping night I am afraid,

For this, mine opaque organism, seems

A glass, a mere reflex of trooping dreams—

A polished boss where images parade.

And to see these doth make my senses cold—

This globe become a visionary face—

This little spinning soul of me—in space—

I dare not think of what that space may hold!

Such thoughts are as the charnel mists that rise

From feverish and mortuary ground

Thru which one sees the country all around—

Yet near, the dead—and far away, the skies.

But at the thought of you my life expands

Until it holds all life within its hands!