The speaker is utterly exhausted — not just physically, but deep in spirit. She has spent so long caring for others, carrying their pain, that she longs to switch roles: to stop being the strong one and become a child again. She remembers resting safely on her father’s strength, and now she asks a man to offer that same kind of protective tenderness. There is a quiet desperation in her voice. She wants to hold out her hand, but only if he can be both strong and kind. Her reference to a saint carrying children up a steep hill turns into a personal plea: “Make me your child, and let me sleep.” The mood is weary, vulnerable, and deeply tender — a longing for love that feels like shelter and release rather than effort.
The Unremitting Weariness — Summary
I AM SO tired I cannot move, I would sit still and love. I carried souls so long in pain, I too would be a child again.
Man who is not child to woman Is either rogue or more than human. — I rested once upon my father's strength: O to find peace in love at length!
Man, are you strong to take my proffered hand, And to be kind when you command? There was a saint who carried children up a steep, Make me your child, and let me sleep.