| My spirit is too weak; mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick eagle looking at the sky. |
5 |
| Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep,
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. Such dim-conceived glories of the brain Bring round the heart an indescribable feud; |
10 |
| So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude Wasting of old Time -- with a billowy main, A sun, a shadow of a magnitude. |