The day sickens into the lakes The colour that its pallor wears. A loss of outline overtakes The landscape, and the horizon bears Like a defeated flag the dim Purposelessness of its dead rim. Let my heart forsake everything. I shall be richer by all I. Every breath, each passing wing Takes me from myself. The whole sky Eats into my self‑consciousness And detracts from my true distress. For my true sorrow is not that The day is sad as I am sad, But that no moment can abate The pain that I but pain have had To take with me and see and feel While life goes by like a mere wheel. No: vaguer things than skies and plains Are dark and lowered o'er in me; My sorrows are more empty pains Than of which plains can symbols be; And my void weight of life and self Resembles nothing but itself.
