| |
|
My spirit is
too weak; mortality
Weighs heavily on me like
unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick
eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to
weep,
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such
dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the
heart an indescribable feud;
So do these wonders a
most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with
the rude
Wasting of old Time -with a billowy main,
A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.
|
|
|
