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 slowly sow and swiftly reap;
And I tire of days that grow weary of hours,
Wafted buds of those stilled lifeless flowers,
Desires and ideas; and also of such powers;
And of every single double thing but sleep.

Here growth has ruination for a neighbor;
And far from seeing eye and listening ear,
Pale waves and ****** winds force labor
On flimsy ships and temperaments to steer;
To drive out of control, and therein wither;
And woe not do those who place them thither:
But no such ****** whirlwinds ******* hither -
No such wrongs felt, seen, or so perceived here.