I Am Weary Of Your

Now To Rivulets From The Mountains Point The Rods Of Fortune-tellers; Youth Perpetual Dwells In Fountains, Not In Flasks, And Casks, And Cellars.

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

It Has Done Me Good To Be Somewhat Parched By The Heat And Drenched By The Rain Of Life.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls, The Burial-ground God's-acre.

Then Fell Upon The House A Sudden Gloom, A Shadow On Those Features Fair And Thin. And Softly, From The Hushed And Darkened Room, Two Angels Issued, Where But One Went In.