To claim one door; all my waste heart is now
An impregnant thing of weeds and wilful moods,
Where even Love’s most lowly groundling ne’er
Could creep with wearied plumes, and be at rest:
Not now like our sad plains of Sicily,
Pensive with happier harvests year by year
This bosom is,—but hot as Aetna’s, torn
And seared with all the fires of vast despairs,—
A menace and a mockery where still brood
On its dark heights the eagles of Unrest.