Who stays
Here long must passe
O'er dark hills, swift streames, and steep ways
As smooth as glasse.
Or a brief sickness:--
So for this night I linger here,
And, full of tossings to and fro,
Expect still when thou wilt appear,
That I may get me up and go.
His eyes are fixed on the shining lights that beckon him; the world is full of voices, but its sights and sounds appeal to him in vain; the beauties that surround him are things of naught--