IN the night, the beautiful, bitter night, I contemplate my perfect loneliness and failure: I, cast out by the loose rhythm of life, Desire the inexpressible, long for what I cannot be. Oh, the sad, slow rains and the heavy winds and the darkness Of winter, and the dull streets of despair! Of life I am so weary and sick at heart I could fight, were aught to be won, or sleep, if sleep were not dead. Now the lamps are put out, the babel of day returns; I live on, yet a million others die; Weakly I strive, but none knows aught of it, To the crowd I am as one of the never-born. Better to make an end, best not to be, Than to know myself a seed that was flung by the wind Never to sprout in the wilderness of earth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY [DECEMBER 16, 1773] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES A MINUET ON REACHING THE AGE OF FIFTY by GEORGE SANTAYANA UPON MY LADY CARLISLE'S WALKING IN HAMPTON COURT GARDEN by JOHN SUCKLING THE MORAL FABLES: THE SWALLOW, AND THE OTHER BIRDS by AESOP SONNET OF LIFE by ERNEST BENSHIMOL ON THE UNION AND THREE-FOLD DISTINCTION OF GOD, NATURE AND CREATURE by JOHN BYROM PREFIXED TO THOMAS RAVENSCROFT'S 'DISCOURSE...' by THOMAS CAMPION |