Thinking the path I journeyed led me right,
I have fallen on such mishap, that not the pleas
Of fancy, nor the wildest images
Can for an instant minister delight.
The green field seems a desert,—starry night
Obscure—the sprightliest conversation dead—
Sweet music harsh, and my most favourite bed
Of odorous violets, the hard field of fight.
Of sleep—(if sleep I have) that part alone
Visits my weary soul, which surely is
The frightful synonym of death, and last,
I deem, whate'er may be my spirit's tone,—
Ere half run out its sands of weariness,
Each passing hour still heavier than the past.