A Note in Discord

I know not how it fares with thee, Good friend, but thus it is with me: I would that I might cease to be.

A weakly wretch whose every breath Is mingled with a groan, a curse, A sigh for higher life—or Death:

Borne on by some inherent trust, Accursed faith, or some vain hope— I live: and yet unfeeling dust

I'd rather be, the senseless clod, Than be the thing I am, or seem— Whim of Nature, freak of God!

And still I cling to this my crust Of life, and live—as if I must: The chains that bind me here will rust

Before I break them. Like a slave Or brute, I bear the hated yoke Of being—shrinking from the grave.