Presses upon me, and seems to deaden
Every sense but a sense of pain.
Hopes of getting again to London
Lapse into utter and grim despair;
Shall I do my verses or leave them undone?
I don't know, and I don't much care.
I sit in a silence broken only
Now and again by the wandering breeze,
A breeze in the garden, wandering lonely,
Or playing the fool with shivering trees.