Lassitude

Ah! to be able to sing, To sorrow in melody; To string with silver Sorrow's dark harp!

Or, mount every thorn Crowning life's brow With lustrous stars-- Those tears of the sky.

Rolling down its face When night's hand puts Darkness's crown on its head As twilight dies.

None of these, for my soul; Only to weep is given to me, To nourish my heart's crop For the scythe of barrenness to reap.