Sonnets, Etc, XVI

Thinking the path I journeyed led me right, I have fallen on such mishap, that not the pleas Of fancy, nor the wildest images Can for an instant minister delight. The green field seems a desert,—starry night Obscure—the sprightliest conversation dead— Sweet music harsh, and my most favourite bed Of odorous violets, the hard field of fight. Of sleep—(if sleep I have) that part alone Visits my weary soul, which surely is The frightful synonym of death, and last, I deem, whate'er may be my spirit's tone,— Ere half run out its sands of weariness, Each passing hour still heavier than the past.