Me not myself to claim
of such presences that stirr the mind
against false pretense to vague impressions,
the reality of yore dappled things
...
So spake I my woe-begone days
of lost memory to another's plight,
that half-baked masonry's night
along the pavement of cow parsley,
...
Thus, by far more to the sea that golden compass,
hath weaved around my head
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown;
so sickening to the bones, my love, of eyes so blind,
...
Of freshly sown seeds that grow and wither
in time's waste,
that in silent hours of the night,
the feet that I hath tread;
...
Not least have I e'er found worthy of thy perusal
of what hath pass'd o'er in a twilight dream,
that in consuming fire of unmet desires;
engulfed with hallucination of the mind,
...
No, not least I know a skipped beat
of untamed heart and cold,
that in a nous of light,
hath weaved around my head,
...
Thus, this world that shows not half thy part,
Of ages that are dead to my reckoning days more bright
Than that forfeited dark with pen-pricked angels,
Away from out of sight to my mind still
...
People are oft misled by the misconstrued notions
of the mind,
that in the morning's pure serene
of full glorious days in autumn leaves
...
Say ye not full rich pride of e'ery flower
upon a barren heath,
that in silent hours of the night,
so sickening to the bones of woe-begone days,
...