Ii

I am sick of the madness of men; of the bootless struggle and strife: Of the pain and the patience of waiting; the scoff and the scorning of life: I am sick of the shapes and the shadows; the sins and the sorrows that crowd The gateways of heart and of brain; of the laughter, the shout that is loud In the mouth of Success--Success, that was never for me, ah me!-- And all the wrong and neglect that are heaped beloved, on thee! I am sick of the whining of failure; the boast and the brag of Success; The vainness of effort and longing; the dreams and the days that oppress: I am sick of them all; but am sickest, am sickest in body and soul, Of the love that I bear thee, beloved! and only thy death can make whole.