Here, where the sphere remains quiet,
Here, where all torment rightly seems
As do breathless winds before the riot;
And clouded visions o' cloudy dreams,
Do watch the pastures there growing,
For harvesting lads and such sowing,
For the reaping hour and the mowing
-A sluggish world of sluggish streams.
I have grown weary of sobs and laughter,
And folks that crow and those that weep
Of what may come there in the hereafter
For those that soe and too swiftly reap;
I tire o days that grow weary of hours,
Wafted buds o those still lifeless flowers,
Desires and ideas; & also of such powers;
Of every single double thing but sleep.
Here growth has ruination as a neighbor,
And far from seeing eye and listening ear,
Pale waves and ****** winds force labor,
Flimsy ships and temperaments do steer
To drive out of control, & therein wither;
Woe not do those who place it thither:
But no such ****** winds ******* hither
-Nothing so felt, seen, or perceived here.