To rest is dedicate. But not the rest
Of brightened spirit, and of lightened breast.
The dull, dead, half-inanimate leaden crouch
Of sheer exhaustion on this shabby couch
Is all my week's repose.
Read? But the tired eyes close,
The book from nerveless fingers drops;
Almost the slow heart stops.
But the clock halts not on its restless round.
Weariness shudders at the whirring sound,