Sonnet.
Thou deadly weariness of life, begone !1
Insidious foe of every noble thought,2
I know thee but too well. Ah ! haunt me not3
With Heaven’s rest. The battle is not won !4
The weary hireling’s task is not half done !5
Spite heat of sun and chill night dews, the strife6
Between Desire and Will is yet as rife7
As e’en in ardent youth. When years have flown8
I, too, may take my wages, and sit by9
The path where others crowd in eager race10
For Life’s sweet prizes. Oh ! more sweet is death ;11
More blessed sleep than waking, to the eye12
That sees and loves not. ’Tis God’s tender grace13
That takes, e’en as it gives, our mortal breath !14