Iii

They are the curs’d! the souls who yearn and evermore pursue The vision of a vain desire, a splendor far ahead; To whom God gives the poet’s dream without the grasp to do, The artist’s hope without the scope between the quick and dead:--

I, too, am weary toiling where The winds and waters beat; When shall I ease the oar I bear And rest my tired feet? When will the white moons cease to glare, The red suns veil their heat? And from the heights blow sweet the air Of Love’s divine retreat?