Weary of laughing, to make others laugh,
Weary of gleaning for nothing but chaff,
Of giving the whole, and receiving but half.
Weary of making, so shortly to mend,
Weary of patching, to turn round and rend,
Weary of earning only to spend.
Weary of weeping when tears are so cheap,
Weary of waking when longing to sleep,
Of giving what nobody wishes to keep.
Weary of drinking to thirst ere I've done,
Weary of eating what satisfies none,
Weary of doing what still is undone.
Weary of glitter without any gold,
Weary of ashes grown fireless and cold,
Weary!—the half of it cannot be told!
THE BODY TO THE SOUL
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO AN OVERWORKED STUDENT.
O tyrant soul of mine,
What's the use
Of this never-ceasing toil,
Of this struggle, this turmoil,
This abuse
Of the body and the brain,
Of this labor and this pain,
Of this never-ceasing strain
On the cords that bind us twain
Each to each?
O tyrant soul of mine,
Is it well
Thus to waste and wear away
The poor, fragile walls of clay
Where you dwell?
Was I made your slave to be—
I the abject, you the free,
That you task me ceaselessly?—
Tyrant soul, come, answer me,
Is it well?
O tyrant soul of mine,
Don't you know
That in slow, but sure decay,
I am wasting day by day,
While you grow
None the better for the strain
On my nerves and on my brain,
For my head's incessant pain,
And my sick heart's longings vain
For repose?