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.