THERE is no quiet left in life, Not any moment brings me rest: Forevermore, from shore to shore, I bear about a laden breast. I see new lands: I meet new men: I learn strange tongues in novel places. I cannot chase one phantom face That haunts me, spite of newer faces. For me the wine is poured by night, And deep enough to drown much sadness; But from the cup that face looks up, And mirth and music turn to madness. There's many a lip that's warm for me: Many a heart with passion bounding: But ah, my breast, when closest prest, Creeps to a cold step near me sounding. To this dark penthouse of the mind I lure the bat-winged Sleep in vain; For on his wings a dream he brings That deepens all the dark with pain. I may write books which friends will praise, I may win fame, I may win treasure; But hope grows less with each success, And pain grows more with every pleasure. The draughts I drain to slake my thirst But fuel more the infernal flame. There tangs a sting in everything: -- The more I change, the more the same! A man that flies before the pest, From wind to wind my course is whirled. This fly accurst stung Io first, And drove her wild across the world! |