WHEN ON THE SHORE GRATES MY BARGE'S KEEL

Weariness, weariness, unending weariness, cease—
Break thou the heart thou canst not heal!
Bitterness, bitterness, undying bitterness, peace—
On shore bring to rest my barge's keel,
On that shadowy shore, we seek at life's release;
For thy soul, belovèd, bears Death's seal.
Restlessness, restlessness, wandering restlessness haunts me;
Lacking thy smile, all life's brooklets congeal
Into one image emotional, fearful which daunts me—
Life's frozen image without an ideal.
Ceaselessly, ceaselessly, ceaselessly, mocking, life taunts me;
Gone all my former purpose and zeal.
Thou wert the pattern that ordered my hopes, my existence;
All that life meant to me, thou didst reveal—
And now thou art gone, all my nature is lacking subsistence—
Oh, let this soul from the body steal!
Then to the spectres, Plutonian, silent, ethereal,
Will my sad spirit for thine appeal,
Wandering onward, and onward through realms immaterial
Till at thy feet shall it joyously kneel—
Then must my weariness, weariness, weariness, cease;
Mended the heart, life could not heal—
Bitterness, bitterness, ended all bitterness, peace—
When on the shore grates my barge's keel.
January 25, 1911.

TO SHELLEY

Shelley, thy spirit is set among the stars;
Exalted from the earth, thy soul sprang high
From these drab pavements to the star-lit sky;
In one grand ecstasy, frail mortal bars
Gave 'way; thy soul purged pure of earthly scars—
No more to languish here with lingering sigh—
Rose from the foaming gulf where thou didst lie,
Rose from the ragged sail and splintered spars,
Rose to Elysium's fairest bowers serene;
There thine Ideal is ever at thy side;
And soft Apollo's hand doth strike the strings;
And Philomel, behind a bowery screen,
Pours forth Anacreon's blessings on thy bride
Who to thine ear unceasing rapture sings.
July 29, 1911.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY