Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Weariness:
Mine eyes are weary of surveying
The fairest things, too soon decaying;
Mine ears are weary of receiving
The kindest words—ah, past believing!
Weary my hope, of ebb and flow;
Weary my pulse, of tunes of woe:
My trusting heart is weariest!
I would—I would, I were at rest!
For me, can earth refuse to fade?
For me, can words be faithful made?
Will my embitter’d hope be sweet?
My pulse forego the human beat?
No! Darkness must consume mine eye—
Silence, mine ear—hope cease—pulse die—
And o’er mine heart a stone be press’d—
Or vain this,—‘Would I were at rest!’
There is a land of rest deferr’d:
Nor eye hath seen, nor ear hath heard,
Nor Hope hath trod the precinct o’er;
For hope beheld is hope no more!
There, human pulse forgets its tone—
There, hearts may know as they are known!
Oh, for dove’s wings, thou dwelling blest.
To fly to thee, and be at rest!
