I
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.
II
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!