He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
I'd most as soon be dead."
Books had no power to mend his grief;
The magazines could tempt no more;
"Cut gold-leaf" was the only leaf
That he had cared to ponder o'er.
From chair to sofa sad he swings,
And then from sofa back to chair;
But in the depths of his despair
Can catch no "bird's-eye" view of things.